Dogwatches - Chapter 2

[barefoot_bard]

Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of historical figures, all names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: A Royal Navy frigate gains a captain whose ideas about running a ship quickly put him at odds with the crew. West Indies/South Carolina, 1780.
Author's note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own. The narrators will change from scene to scene, as this story is told primarily by the ship's Marines.

This is a re-issuing of the story, following substantial editing of the original piece.
Previous chapters: One



In the early morning sunlight, the Marines' white crossbelts gleamed and their freshly-scrubbed coats seemed to glow a fine shade of scarlet. Their black cocked hats, each one canted at a jaunty angle, had been given careful brushings. Cartridge boxes were newly-repainted, buttons and crossbelt plates polished to mirror shine, shoes freshly blacked. Every man's smallclothes had been given thorough washing and mending. Many had taken the addition step of stiffening their neckcloths. All had freshly-tied queues and, of course, all were cleanshaven. The muskets in their hands had received no less attention. Wooden stocks shone with polish and slings were crisp from recent pipeclaying.

There was not a man in the detachment who had not spent hours attending his kit. Of that Corporal McIntyre was certain. He had been awake half the night in order to clean every part of his uniform and he had not been alone. This inspection was too important. Higgins had passed the word about it directly, or as directly as he was able for he'd been the great cabin sentry during the captain's dinner. The news had sent the detachment into a scramble. Inspections were nothing new to them but it was uncommon for a ship's captain to take an interest. This was a chance for them to redeem themselves and they were keen to take it.

McIntyre twitched his shoulders and fixed his gaze on the bowsprit, well away across the length of the ship. As ever, the Marines were paraded on the quarterdeck, behind where the officers always stood. In the waist, all the way up to the foc's'le, the company stood in their respective divisions. Like the Marines, the seamen were dressed in their best rigs, clean white duck trousers and blue jackets giving them their own uniformity. Many of them had been hard at work throughout the night as well, McIntyre knew. They too had an interest in doing their ship proud.

The men nearest the aft ladder stiffened abruptly and the wisps of chatter amongst the seamen came to a sharp halt. The captain was coming on deck. Sergeant Devlin did not so much as twitch when he grunted, "Marines, 'shun!"

There was the barest rattle as the Marines straightened up, then Captain Leaford was coming up the quarterdeck stairs. He was immaculately turned out in his dress coat. Behind him came the ship's officers, who were also turned out in their best uniforms. They formed a nearly solid wall of blue at the quarterdeck rail, with Captain Collins providing the only relief in his red coat. There had been no trace of expression on the Marine captain's face, but he had inspected the detachment on the messdeck, before All Hands had been piped. He had expressed no displeasure then. He, at least, knew the lads were perfectly turned out.

"I am to inspect the ship," Captain Leaford intoned. "Men are to remain on deck in their respective divisions. If this inspection proves successful, all hands will be dismissed to their regular duties. If it does not, every man on this deck will spend the rest of this day cleaning the ship from mainmast truck to keel."

A shiver passed through the seamen as men glanced quickly at each other. How empty was this threat? None of them were sure. The previous day's floggings were very fresh in every man's mind. If the captain saw it worth while to award lashes for being unshaven, it was indeed possible he would do just as he'd promised. For McIntyre, it was less of a worry than it was for the sailors. Marines did not work aloft.

Leaford waited until the brief stirring ended. "Mister Simcoe will accompany me. No man or officer is to go below until we are returned."

Perfect, McIntyre thought. God alone knew how long this was likely to take, with them standing out here in the strengthening sunshine. Too, with the lower decks deserted, the galley fires would not have been lit, which meant no hot breakfast. That was what he disliked most. Nothing set a man up better for the day that a good, hot meal.

"Stand at ease," Devlin told them, after Leaford and Simcoe had disappeared down the aft ladder again. That was pure good sense, McIntyre thought gratefully. There was no point in standing stiffly at attention when there was no telling how long they would have to be on deck. Not a man in the two ranks dared speak, however. Not with most of the ship's officers still present in front of them.

The seamen, on the other hand, had no such restriction. Their supervising petty officers put them at ease and soon enough the light hum of conversation drifted over the weather deck. McIntyre shifted his weight slightly and felt a rivulet of sweat tickle its way down his back. It was getting steadily warmer as the sun broke away finally from the horizon. His shirt collar had already wilted and stuck to the back of his neck. It would only get worse, and it was not even midmorning.

"God bless the West Indies," he muttered under his breath. There was a warning grunt from Sergeant Devlin, even though the other Irishman didn't glance back to see who had broken silence. Despite himself, McIntyre cracked a quick grin. The day's growing growing heat would be worse for Devlin. He was stockier than McIntyre and had to endure the additional discomfort of the sash about his waist.

With nothing else to look at than the back of Lieutenant Carver's head, and certainly nothing better to do, McIntyre inched his right foot a little further back and leaned more of his weight on it. A brief nap was just the thing to help pass the time. Besides. Nobody who mattered would see him. With this thought in mind, the corporal let his eyelids droop shut. Sleeping on his feet was a skill he had perfected over the course of years standing sentry.

He was not sure how much time had passed since his eyes had closed, but he was brought sharply awake by Sergeant Devlin's harshly uttered, "Marines, 'shun!"

The detachment shifted smoothly to attention, giving no sign that half the men had, like McIntyre, been dozing on their feet only seconds earlier. Captain Leaford came clomping up the quarterdeck stairs with Mister Simcoe in tow, but there was no trace at all of what he thought of his inspection. McIntyre hoped the sea officer had been satisfied with the state of the frigate and her crew, if only so the company could be dismissed. There was the matter of breakfast to attend to, after all.

There was a silence after the captain resumed his place at the rail, broken only by the squawking of gulls overhead. Was Leaford trying to ruin their nerves? It was likely. He had been aboard no more than a day and that already seemed to be a prominent trait of his. Presently, the sea officer cleared his throat, and McIntyre's fears that his empty stomach might grumble at an inopportune moment were temporarily allayed.

"I must confess," Leaford began in the same flat tone as before, "that I had feared the worst about this ship, after the poor performance I bore witness to yesterday. I dislike a slack company, but more than that I dislike a slack ship. As to the latter, I am happy to be disappointed in my fear. This is a prime example of what a King's frigate ought to be."

Relief rolled across the weather deck like an invisible wave. There was hardly a man on deck who had not dreaded the captain's displeasure should anything be found wanting. That he expressed satisfaction with Cornwall's state was cause for pride. A glare from Matheson, the boatswain, stilled the quiet murmurs amongst the seamen, which permitted Leaford to continue.

"I believe great things can be expected from this ship. In such a fine fighting state, nothing less should be accepted. Mister Simcoe. Dismiss the company."

Dismiss. Finally. McIntyre was only too glad to fall out with the others and escape below. Never before had thick porridge been more appealing. It served him right for donating half of his supper to Tom Carter, didn't it? Next time, he resolved to write a letter for the poor beggar instead.

~

"Libertymen t'the entry port!"

The summons was shouted down the hatchways by the boatswain and his mates, causing a flutter of movement on the gundeck. It was the day after Captain Leaford had conducted his inspection of the ship and crew, and the misadventure which had marked his first day aboard was already forgotten. The ship's usual routine had resumed without further incident and now, with the first dogwatch being only two bells old, the evening's libertymen were looking forward to a few hours ashore.

"C'mon, Dav!" Matthew Barrett called, already half-way up the ladder to the weather deck. There were a handful of Marines in the group of libertymen as well, which was the most surprising of all. The Marines were not about to complain about their good fortune. Except perhaps for the men who had been recently flogged, as they were not permitted off the ship until they were cleared from the sicklist. There were many promises from the libertymen to smuggle bottles and other sundries back aboard for them. Davenport was only a step behind him and laughed at his mate's needless encouragement. He was not about to miss the boat ashore.

"Fall in!" Corporal McIntyre called, the list of approved libertymen in hand. The Marines stamped their heels together and went to attention, while the seamen shuffled their feet and halfheartedly tried to straighten themselves up. He and Matheson went through the checking of names and faces easily, aware that the crew weren't about to risk their precious liberty runs by trying to sneak ashore without leave.

Davenport suppressed a smile at the envious looks cast their way from the watch on deck. Poor lads, he thought happily. They all wished they could be going ashore too. McIntyre scrawled his signature at the bottom of the list and called out "Gerroff with you, an' enjoy yourselves," and that was it.

The seamen went down the side first, as they were more nimble-footed, then the six Marines - Sergeant Devlin included - made their way down into the waiting jolly-boat. Now Davenport didn't bother containing his grin as the libertymen joked with each other and teased the oarsmen. Corporal McIntyre waved cheerfully at them as the bowman pushed off, then the boat was pulling toward the dock and McIntyre disappeared back to his other duties.

He was forgotten almost as soon as he went out of sight. The conversations revolved chiefly around what the men planned to do once they were ashore, which invariably began and ended with heading directly to the nearest tavern. Like had happened with the flogged Marines, promises were made to the oarsmen to smuggle bottles and food back aboard to them.

"Hey lads," Cob Chase said suddenly, pointing out over the starboard gunwale. "Lookit that two-sticker yon, just comin' 'round the flag."

Except for the oarsmen, everyone in the boat turned to look where the topman was pointing. A sloop was indeed cutting around the stern of the flagship, dashing smartly past the larger ship under close-reefed topsails. The seamen in the jolly-boat watched the nimble sloop slip neatly between a pair of slower-moving fishing barges, even as she made the familiar movements of heaving-to.

Somebody aboard the flagship bellowed at the sloop through a speaking trumpet for being so brashly daring, to which the sloop replied by putting her helm down and carving her way around a merchant brig, a move that brought her close up to the harbour-boat that marked where she was to anchor. With her forward speed steadily falling away to nothing, the big anchor splashed mightily into the water next, which stopped all her motion smoothly. Cornwall's libertymen cheered the sloop's show. It was always heartening to see a well-handled ship and it was made better by the sloop's blatant showing-off in front of the flag.

"Ain't that somethin'. Gotta be a proper fire-eater on that 'un," Bob Flint muttered, shaking his head wonderingly. Davenport grinned at the seaman.

"Ain't jealous, are you?" He asked playfully.

Flint shook his head again, adamantly this time. "Hell's teeth, no! Take a frigate over them cursed sloops any wind!"

That sparked off a spirited debate about the merits of a frigate over a sloop, which lasted until the jolly-boat hooked on at the dock. The Marines were, again, the last to scramble out of the boat. They were shortly abandoned by the seamen but that was only to be expected. The Tars had their own ways of enjoying themselves on liberty. Besides which, it was unnatural for the two groups to interact while ashore unless necessary.

"C'mon then, lads." Nathan Tarwick slung an arm over Barrett's shoulder and nearly knocked the younger Marine into James Bell. "Let's go see what's changed since our last run ashore."

Billy Springfield made a face. "Canna be much, it ain't been a fortnigh' since we were here last."

"Fortnight's long enough," Tarwick replied cheerfully and set off toward the street, half-dragging Barrett along with him. The others followed, except for Sergeant Devlin, who seemed more content to chat with the jolly-boat's coxswain. He wouldn't be missed a bit. Corbett led them along the crowded street toward the tavern that had become their favourite haunt. There was a lot of carousing to be done and only six hours in which to do it. Once safely inside the tavern - called the Blue Monkey - the group cleared away a table of its previous inhabitants and called loudly for a barmaid.

"Hey, so wha's 'bout a story?" Barrett asked, leaning his chair back onto two legs. They had a minute or two to pass before the barmaid delivered their ale and stew. There was no point wasting such valuable time sitting around staring at the table. Barrett's question drew a laugh from Davenport, who was fond of stories himself, though he was just as willing to tell them as listen to them.

"Story, Mattie? Ain't you heared most of the good ones by now?"

Barrett shook his head. "Naught alla the good 'uns. C'mon, Dav. I ain't heerd half the tales ye got stowed 'way. How many yeers was ye woorkin' for them Customs lads?"

"A Customs spy, wa' ye?" Bell asked, his voice more a grunt than not. "Why ain't Ah s'prised?"

The others grinned at each other. Bell had joined the Corps with his brother to escape the noose, whereas Davenport had enlisted after it became too dangerous for him to remain in Falmouth as a Customs lookout. They had come from opposite sides of the law, yet they could nearly be considered friends now. Davenport grinned at the Newcastleman. " 'Cause there ain't a thing that oughta surprise you, Bell. Been an' done it all, you have!"

Bell nodded, once. "Ain't a body i' the Toon divvent knaa 'bout us Bells."

The barmaid reappeared, balancing a battered tray that was heavy with tankards and stew bowls. Conversation stilled while the round-bosomed girl served out the one tankard and bowl apiece to each of them, though they all eyed her hungrily as she moved around the table. As Springfield had pointed out only a few minutes before, it had been a fortnight since they had been ashore. It was a long time to go without suitable company. While the barmaid herself was not likely to end up with any of them, there were plenty of other girls in town who would.

"Thankee, Miss," Davenport told the girl before she bustled away. She favoured him with a grin, which drew hoots of laughter from the other Marines. They considered it good luck to be the first one to attract such favourable attention from a lass during shore runs. Davenport was bound to have a good evening now.

"Enough of that, lads," the half-Spanish Marine protested playfully, dunking a hunk of bread into his stew. "There's plenty of fine skirts here for everybody."

"Aye, but you got the best luck for it." Tarwick grinned and lifted his tankard to his lips. "Now then. Who's gonna give us the first story? C'mon boys, make Mattie here a happy lad."

They grinned at Barrett, who was blushing fiercely. Springfield said, "Whyn't ye give us a tale, Nate? Sure ye oughta known a couple yerself."

"I ain't done nothin'," Tarwick countered smoothly. "Few commissions here an' there, but nothin' worth tellin' 'bout."

"Riffraff." Springfield shook his head. "You was at Breed's Hill, I remember hearin' one of Vigilant's lads talkin' about it. You oughta known him, he was a Light Bob. Adam Boone?"

Tarwick chewed thoughtfully on a hunk of beef and nodded slowly. "I remember him, aye. Saucy little bastard he was. Din't see him much though, 'cause I was in a battalion company." All attention was him now, tankards and stew bowls all but forgotten. Tarwick blushed. "Aw c'mon, lads! I ain't got no stories worth tellin'."

"But yer the on'y one of us'n heer what's bin ta Boston," Barrett protested. "There was some roight wild doin's down theer, I heered."

"There was, sure, but - "

"But naught. Gissa tale, Nate, c'mon."

They watched him expectantly. With a put-upon sigh, Tarwick stuffed a sopping hunk of bread into his mouth and shook his head. "Yoo leds us dew muts," he mumbled, not bothering to finish chewing before speaking. "Arri' Aye'll tull yoo... tell you lads a story." There was another pause as he washed down the gravy-soaked bread with ale, then he nodded slowly. "I was in an' 'round Boston-town, right 'nuff. Had Major Tupper fer company officer, an' he was arrigh'. Anyways, we was 'round when the Twenny-Ninth got set 'gainst by them half-wit rebel sods. There was all sorta trouble after that, 'tween mobs an' soldiers all about. We was all kept 'round close to our billets 'cause of the town-folk, so we wouldn't get our heads kicked in or nothin'. 'Cept there was no keepin' some of them grenadier lads penned up. They was always slippin' out fer a wet, or 'leastaways they was always tryin' to."

Tarwick helped himself to another swallow of ale to moisten his tongue, then continued. "So me an' Gabe Freeley's on sentry, tryin' to keep ourselves from freezin' stone stiff, an' we hears summat 'round back of the place. Shoes in the snow, like. Gabe goes to see what's what, an' not half a minute later he's callin' fer the alarm like he's 'bout to get his head cracked, so I goes dashin' round the back to help. An' what does I see but one of them great lumberin' fools all a-tangle, an' stuck fast in the window an' another standin' by. So - hush, Mattie, it gets better - so me an' Gabe are standin' there, starin' at this poor daft fella, while half the battalion comes all a-runnin' 'cause of Gabe callin' the alarm."

"I think I knows wha' 'appens," Barrett said smugly. Tarwick ignored him.

"Well dontcha know, lads, that while they're all a-turnin' out under arms, this fool grenadier's tryin' mighty hard to wriggle himself free, 'cept he's only makin' himself even more stuck. Sarn't Downin' comes up an' wants to know which of us damn fools let the grenadier get so far out the window, an' 'course me an' Gabe can't say nothin' 'cause of us bein' 'round at our posts. Then some Light Bob pipes up an' says it were his idea 'cause of that grenadier owed him half a shillin' an' was goin' out to find it somewhere. So 'course - "

Bell grunted after slurping down the last of his ale. "This story gotta point?"

"Course it does," Tarwick told him, then stuffed a dripping hunk of beef into his mouth. "Effree dorree cotts uh bownd."

"Chew that, Nate, yer not a damn Tar!" Springfield admonished.

Tarwick grinned, but obediently swallowed the beef and wet his throat with some ale. "So 'course Sarn't Downin' ain't half pleased with that, an' he starts a-thunderin' how he wants that grenadier hauled outta the window. Which there's no easy goin' 'bout that, 'cause of the grenadier bein' a big lad an' well stuck besides. Sarn't Downin' tells his mate to get hold of him an' start a-heavin' him out, while some other lads push 'gainst him from inside, an' after a bit they pushes him out that window like a cork outta a wine bottle. So now there's a grenadier all a-sprawled in the snow, an' Sarn't Downin' goes to grab him up, 'cause of this idiot havin' made him get up outta bed. An' all a'sudden Sarn't Downin' gives a great loud roar an' drops the lad. While they was heavin' an' pushin' the lad out, he got so squeezed that he went an' pissed all over himself, breeches, shirt, an all, an' Sarn't Downin' put his hands right onta that mess."

The others laughed, well able to picture such a scene. Even Bell seemed amused. They signalled the barmaid for another round, since most of their tankards were empty by now, and the merriment was continued when Davenport related the story of an encounter he'd had with some smugglers in Falmouth. The sharing of tales lasted them through three tankards and their bowls of stew, and they were working themselves up to depart when a seaman came bursting into the tavern, nearly losing his hat in his rush.

"Cornwalls!" The Tar bellowed, his voice deep and quarterdeck-loud. "Any lads from Cornwall here'bouts, 'port back t'yer ship. Show a leg there, yew lads, c'mon!"

The Marines groaned. They had been about to move onto the next part of their evening. The better part, depending on the Marine. Davenport and Tarwick passed each man's hat back from where they'd been piled on an empty chair, while Bell eyed the leather-lunged Tar with open disgust. The other tavern patrons, a curious mixture of seamen, soldiers, and townspeople, had already looked back to their drinks and food, uncaring as to the disruption of the Cornwall Marines' plans.

"Wha' ship're ye?" Bell demanded of the seaman-messenger.

The Tar eyed him speculatively. Bell was far from meek or unassuming, for his face, while somehow unmarred by scars, was set in a forbidding expression and there was no mistaking the tension in his posture. He wouldn't pass up the slightest chance for a fight if the Tar was foolish enough to offer one. "Come from the flag," the seaman replied haughtily, choosing to attempt to hide behind the importance of the flagship.

"The flag, eh?" Bell didn't bother to pretend that he was impressed. "Well bloody good f'ye, now gan outta me face."

"C'mon mate," Davenport said warningly, drawing close to the Newcastleman but taking care not to touch him. He was equally careful not to use Bell's name. "It ain't worth the trouble."

The seaman lifted his chin imperiously. "Back to your ship, 'fore it sails without you!"

That got the Marines moving, breaking up the supportive cluster they had been forming behind Bell. If there had been a fight, they were ready to back him wholeheartedly. But, wisely, Bell stepped back from the seaman and simply shook his head. "Lower'n the scum I used ta heave inta gutters," he muttered as he followed his mates outside. It went sharply against his instincts to walk away from a challenge, especially one so plainly laid down, but he'd recognise that smug bastard if he saw him again, and then there would be a beating.

"Cornwalls, to me!" A voice was calling, and the Marines groaned almost as one man. It would have to be one of the frigate's boatswain's mates summoning them to the dock. What the devil had happened out there? Bell looked around and saw that other libertymen were strolling around without apparent care. Why were they being recalled? A couple of seamen were staggering toward them, one of them still trying to button up his trousers. He heard Springfield chuckle. At least the Marines weren't the only ones forced to abandon their plans.

"Come on, lads, or we'll lose the tide!" Mister Colburn was waving at another slow-moving pair of Tars, the last of the frigate's libertymen. Grimacing at each other, the Marines scrambled awkwardly down into the waiting jolly-boat and settled themselves amongst the seamen who were already there. Colburn waited until the last of the stragglers had gone down into the boat before springing lightly down after them. The bowman cast off the mooring line and, a few brisk commands later, the jolly-boat was pulling steadily for Cornwall.

"What's all the rush fer?' Chicken Dyer demanded, glaring at the frigate. There were men bustling about on the foc's'le and amidships, making preparations for getting underway. It didn't make any damn sense, Bell thought grumpily. This had to be their new captain's idea of a poor joke. They'd only had two bells' worth of liberty. To have the whole evening cut so short was an insult.

Colburn sounded exasperated. "We're puttin' to sea, Dyer. Got orders for patrol."

And that makes it all better, thought Bell. He cast an annoyed glance at Colburn, then looked toward the steadily-approaching frigate. It would have to be his liberty that got cut short, wouldn't it! At least, he told himself grudgingly, they had orders to hunt down rebel merchant shipping. The chances for prize money were good with nice fat merchant brigs capering around. It was a small consolation prize in the face of the lost opportunity for sport, but Bell had gone much longer without a bounce or two on old straw mattresses. He felt himself grin slightly. Besides. Patrols meant chances to fight. Bell never been one to say no to a fight.

~

There was a light creak as Captain Leaford rose from his chair at the head of the table. He was careful to avoid striking his head on the deck beam above him and peered at the officers seated around the table. The early morning sunlight streaming in through the stern gallery made it difficult to look directly back at him, but it seemed that he was assessing each of them in turn. Almost as if trying to determine their strengths and weaknesses as gentlemen and officers. It was not a comfortable scrutiny.

"I have called you gentlemen here to acquaint you with our orders," Leaford began, his tone bland, at last diverting his gaze to the middle distance. "It is unfortunate that we were obliged to sail last night before properly provisioning, but the admiral wished for us to affect a swift departure. A despatch has been lately received requesting support for an operation in the southern colonies. South Carolina, to be precise. As you can see, this ship has been selected for the task. It is important to join with Admiral Arbuthnot's squadron with all speed. The army is already landed some way south of their objective, having left New York just after Christmas."

The captain tapped the chart laid out on the table, drawing the officers' attention to it. "Our passage should take two weeks, or less with a soldier's wind. If necessary, we will stop in Nassau for water and provisions. It is not yet known what work we shall be put to upon our arrival but I should like every preparation made for possible action. Gun crews are to be drilled daily, in dumb show only until I judge the overall competence sufficient to permit the use of live shot. The idlers are to drill with musket and cutlass, under the Master-at-Arms' instruction. Lieutenant Simcoe. I should also like the off-watch to be drilled in boat operations daily."

There were nods around the table. Thus far, it was sensible enough. The prospect of being sent into action after months of patrolling was exciting. Leaford pursed his lips, something like a thoughtful expression drifting across his face. He traced the tip of a finger over the chart, following a carefully-marked line on the paper. Then he said, "It is my belief that we will be used to directly support the army in whatever it chooses to do. Toward this end, I should like you to prepare special duty lists for your Marines, Major. One each for boarding parties, shore details, and detached duties. I expect to be asked to supply men in plenty, and it will not do not to know whom to send."

"Sir," Lieutenant Alderbury asked. "Is it known what the army intends for South Carolina?"

Leaford shook his head. "That information will doubtlessly be provided when we join them, if at all! In the absence of such knowledge, it is best to be prepared for anything. If there is nothing else, gentlemen, be about your duties. Mister Prewett to remain, that is. That will be all."

Chairs scraped back as the assembled officers got to their feet. Only the sailing master lingered as the others filed out. Leaford waited until they had gone and the door was again shut before sitting down again himself.

"Now then, Mister Prewett. It is my understanding there are number of Americans amongst the crew."

The sailing master nodded. "There are, sir, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"Aye. Shifty buggers, colonials, sir. Can't depend on 'em for naught. Half of 'em would run or draw you straight into a trap if they was to get half a chance. Damned unreliable, the lot of 'em."

"I see." Leaford studied the chart for a moment before continuing. "Who are the Americans, may I ask? Those you are aware of, that is."

"The Master-at-Arms is one, sir. Come straight from South Carolina, him. There's some of the seamen are Yankees. Button, Hartley, Riggan, Merton, an' Nicholls. Moss, gunner's mate. An' one of the Marines."

"Hmm." There was another pause. Then, "Thank you, Mister Prewett. That is good to know. Now. In your opinion, which will serve as the most expeditious route to Charleston?"

The sailing master shuffled closer to the table and peered closely at the chart. "Well, sir," he began after a brief study. "We'd do well to keep well clear of Puerto Rico, here..."

Outside the door, Symon Higgins grimaced to himself. He might have guessed they'd end up with a Yankee-hating captain. He'd hate to be any of those poor sods now. Especially being bound for the colonies as they were. Leave it to the sailing master to find a like mind in the captain, too. There'd be no tolerating the old bastard now. Perfect. He'd have to get word to Mister West, to warn him. The sailors too. And Mayden. Higgins grimaced again, but this expression was quickly smoothed into neutrality when he heard shoes on the ladder. There might be no containing Mayden, really. That one never knew when to mind himself.

The shoes on the ladder belonged to Captain Collins, who was on his way topside from below. Higgins relaxed slightly when his officer was gone from sight. Hopefully one of the ship's boys would wander past before the end of the watch. If nothing else, West, the Master-at-Arms, needed to be made aware that he might find himself a target for trouble. Somehow, Higgins guessed unhappily, there was going to be plenty of that aboard before this commission was over.

~

A fat drop of sweat was rolling lazily down the side of his nose. To swipe it away would be to earn immediate notice from Sergeant Devlin and almost just as immediate punishment for daring to move during parade. The morning inspection was nearly over anyway, Corporal McIntyre decided, so he could ignore that tickling sensation just a bit longer. He watched Captain Collins pace casually back to the front of the neat formation and waited. Every day since he had taken command of the detachment, Collins had held a morning inspection parade. It rarely took long, once his standards were made clear. If anything, it had become another tedious part of the Marines' day and was almost more disliked than musket drill. They were spared morning parade only during storms.

"Fall the men out, Sergeant," Collins was saying quietly. "Then you and Corporals Jones and McIntyre will report to me in the gunroom."

McIntyre's attention was instantly caught. There were only a few reasons for Collins wanting his ranking Marines to meet, and almost none of them were good. Was there to be another group flogging? He could think of nothing that any man in the detachment might have done to warrant that level of punishment. Not since they had left English Harbour in such a tearing hurry two days before. Maybe it had something to do with that. Collins never rushed affairs if he did not have to.

"Marines!" Devlin barked and there was the barest shiver as the detachment straightened from its imperceptible slouch. "Corporal Jones, Corporal McIntyre, repair aft. Rest of you, go belowdecks an' to your duties. Fall out!"

Shoes scraped over the freshly-scrubbed decks as the Marines dispersed, tramping below to attend to any repairs or alterations their uniforms needed. When the watches changed, they'd be called back on deck for musket drill. McIntyre was finally able to swipe at that clinging drop of sweat. Lord but it was hot out here.

The seamen had it much easier than the Marines, being able to go about in only their ragged working trousers as they were. The Marines had to suffer in their long-tailed wool coats and layers of linen. He grinned to himself as he watched one young seaman ease his sunburned arms back into a loose-fitting shirt. Or maybe they were the lucky ones after all.

"Any idea what the cap'n wants?" Corporal Jones asked him, as the two of them made their belowdecks. It was not any cooler below, owing to the lack of breeze in the closed-in deck. Another globule of sweat cascaded slowly down the bridge of his nose. McIntyre dashed it away and shook his head.

"Nope," he replied. "But I hope it ain't 'cause there's lads headin' for the grating again."

Jones shuddered. "Aye. Can't have more lads put down on sicklist. There'll be nobody left to stand watches!"

That wasn't the only reason Jones would be hoping for no more floggings. The Welshman had a bad tendency to avoid conflict and was known to be overly passive when dealing with trouble amongst his men. It made for the occasional awkwardness, usually when McIntyre had to step in and fill the void. But he said nothing in reply and fell in behind Sergeant Devlin.

"Sent for, sir," Devlin called out, pausing briefly outside the gunroom before crossing into it. His gesture was for courtesy only, to alert any other officers in their cabins that there were going to be regular crew in their sanctuary. Hardy, Collins' steward, appeared from their captain's cabin and nodded at them on his way out, his arms weighted down with Collins' spare coat and what looked like a pair of shoes. He would have been about to go to work on his officer's kit, but whatever had warranted Collins to summon his three ranking Marines aft was disrupting that.

"Come," Collins said, emerging from his cabin as well. There was a moment of hesitation as the captain went aft to the table that served as the gunroom's chief meeting place, then the three Marines followed him. None of them spoke while Collins took a chair at the table and set down the detachment's muster book. "Have a seat if you like, lads."

Only Devlin claimed a chair opposite the captain. Jones and McIntyre remained on their feet, using their muskets to lean on. It seemed too unnatural to sit in their captain's presence, invited to do so or not. Collins simply shrugged and opened the muster book. "I have been instructed," he began, "to divide men into boarding and shore parties, in anticipation of either a prize or landfall. The goal, plainly, being that of expediency."

McIntyre lifted an eyebrow. It wasn't like Collins to call them together to plan for those occurrences, if indeed such planning was required at all. The detachment had long since been organised in such a way that forming boarding parties and shore details was simple and fast. Why would Collins feel it was necessary to...? Ah. That was the rub, wasn't it? It had not been his idea, for he knew his men well enough to form a boarding party at the drop of a hat, without having to rely on previously-created lists.

"Gotta be put down on paper, sir?" Jones asked, looking mildly confused.

Collins tapped one finger on the open muster book. "It does, Corporal. In addition to the muster book and sentry bills, I must maintain a current list of men for boarding parties, shore details, and quarterguards." He was plainly annoyed by this new requirement, though McIntyre marvelled at the captain's ability to control his voice.

"It's bollocks, sir," Sergeant Devlin said quietly.

"Maybe so, Sergeant," Collins replied, "but it's bollocks we have to contend with. That was not the only reason I wished to speak with you three, however." He glanced down at the open muster book and pursed his lips thoughtfully. The other Marines waited. After a moment, he said, "There is a more pressing matter to be discussed."

The two corporals glanced at each other and a chill went down McIntyre's spine. Whatever that 'more pressing matter' was, it could not be any good for the detachment. Only Sergeant Devlin seemed unperturbed, but he rarely let any sign of his thoughts or feelings show anyway. McIntyre looked briefly down at the browned barrel of his musket, then lifted his gaze back to meet Collins', who was, he discovered with a start, looking at him.

"The men who were flogged last week will be returning to duty tomorrow," Collins went on. "I have little doubt that our actions and conduct are being closely watched. This means, those ten men will be drawn aside and quietly warned that they must take special care with themselves and their kit, to prevent repeat occurrences of the spectacle that we saw after the captain came aboard."

Ah. That made a sad sort of sense, McIntyre thought, but it was probably only to be expected. He would do the same if it had been his section that was out of order. It was a natural reaction for any man in command of others. Or at least that had been McIntyre's experience.

"More than half the men from that unfortunate quarterguard were from your section, Corporal." Collins said, his steady gaze again on McIntyre. Another chill went down the Irishman's spine. It was no secret that he was often less than strict with his Marines, but never to the point of such plain sloppiness. The suggestion that the quarterguard's disgrace might be due to his own lads did not sit well.

"It ain't their fault, sir - " McIntyre began, unable to fully conceal his indignation. Beside him, Jones tried to nudge him discreetly with his elbow to get him to shut up. McIntyre ignored him. It might be Jones' way to avoid conflict, but McIntyre had learned that shying away from a scrap never solved anything. More than that, he resented the notion that he led his Marines so poorly that they would consider it acceptable to turn out unshaven and unkempt. They deserved better than that and he did his best to be worthy of the knot on his shoulder.

Collins' gaze pierced right through his objection and the Irishman's voice trailed off. "At your ease, Corporal. I know you are not soft on your lads. There is little need to protest. If I had my way - " the captain caught himself and shook his head slightly. "I would like both of you corporals to speak privately - privately - with those men who were flogged and impress on them the importance of avoiding unnecessary notice."

It was all McIntyre could do to hold his tongue. He nodded stiffly, understanding both Collins' point and the fact that he would not have been so ignorant of his own lads. The gesture was not made willingly, but Collins understood.

"Thank you. Now. to the next piece of business. It has not been made widely known yet, but our orders are not simply to patrol. We have been temporarily attached to Admiral Arbuthnot's command and are to join the admiral's squadron on the South Carolina coastline to assist with military operations there. This, naturally, suggests that we may be spending some substantial time ashore. Therefore, I want the lads to begin drilling in shore operations as best as you are able. If we are lucky, we won't give the captain any more cause to consider us embarrassments."

McIntyre did not smile, but noticed that Jones did. Of course. Their captain seemed to ignore them as he again tapped the open muster book and added, "I will be taking half your section ashore when we do make landfall, McIntyre. Corporal Jones will follow with half his section if necessary and Sergeant Devlin will have command of the rest aboard ship. So pick your shore parties now, and concern yourselves with boarding parties afterward. I should not need to repeat that it is important to be on our best behaviour at all times, either."

"No sir," the three Marines replied.

"Good." Collins nodded. "That will do. Dismissed."

They trooped out, their heads full with the information they had been given. McIntyre found himself puzzling over the mention of 'assisting military operations' in South Carolina. What purpose could they possibly serve there? And to possibly be detached to serve with the army, no less! It was beyond sensible, that was for sure.

"Might be some proper action now," Jones commented as they headed toward their hammocks, which swung side by side. The remark seemed odd coming from the normally-passive Welshman, but McIntyre figured he could understand the reason for it. He shrugged.

"Aye, maybe. We'll have to show them army sods how it's done, sure." The Irishman leaned his musket against the curve of the ship's hull and stretched his arms. "Well, what d'you say we get those damned lists sorted now, before it's time for musket drill?"

Jones grimaced, but fished out paper and a couple pencil stubs from his sea-chest. Neither of them cared much for the administrative side of their jobs, but it was just another thing to be borne. The two corporals settled onto the deck and set to work. Whatever spelling or grammatical errors they made would be corrected later by Captain Collins. That, at least, was an upside to the whole chore.

~

From his place by the helm, Sam Tate had a commanding view of the ship and the glittering sea stretching out ahead. The frigate was handling well, according to the master, Mister Prewett. It was one of the few times the long-faced old man said anything positive. Most things that came out of the master's mouth were grumbles. About the weather, about the war, about those damned Yankees needing help from those damned French. More than once over the course of the watch, Tate had heard Mister Prewett admonished by Lieutenant Alderbury for his remarks. Not that censure made any difference to the grey-haired sailing master.

Few of the Marines had any respect for Prewett because of his grudging nature, but in Tate's view, the master was of the right mind about things, if not in possession of the right sort of sense. What was the use in trying to keep control of the rebellious colonies? If they thought they'd be better off on their own, let them have at it. Tate had never met a Yankee who was any use, anyway. All their fine talk about liberty and freedom was nothing but foolish in his estimation. What was the point in freedom anyway?

It was a pity there were several Yankees amongst the crew. Or maybe not so much a pity as a worry. Any man with half a brain knew not to trust a Yankee. In that respect, Tate considered Mister Prewett to be dead right. At least the poor fellow didn't have to deal directly with any of those shifty-eyed bastards every day. Unlike some. One of the Marines was a Yankee himself. That snotty blackguard Tom Mayden. He was the one who needed the most watching, for he hailed from the city that had started all of this mess.

Tate realised he was scowling and schooled his face into blank impassivity. It wouldn't to be to caught with any expression on his face. Especially not so close to the officer of the watch, even though Mister Alderbury was known to be friendly with Tate's captain. Drawing attention to himself for anything was something Tate tried to avoid. Unlike some of the others, he had no interest in standing out as a good or bad Marine. Keeping to his duty and staying out of trouble was enough for him. It wasn't always easy, particularly with men he disliked strongly always close by, but he managed.

The same, however, could clearly not be said for some of the seamen. It was not yet the end of the watch but a couple of the seven-bell men had appeared on deck. They looked about intently before spotting the boatswain. Mister Matheson and one of his mates were in conversation with the ship's carpenter near the foremast and the two seamen approached them. There was a short exchange, then Matheson headed aft at once with Colburn in tow. The pair went down the aft ladder and vanished. The seamen who had stirred them stayed up forrard, joining a couple men of the duty watch by the forebraces.

"Might be some trouble below, sir," Prewett grunted, taking his gaze away from the binnacle for a moment to glance sidelong at Lieutenant Alderbury. Tate thought he saw a flash of something like hope pass across the master's face. That was another of the man's faults. He seemed to relish it whenever a seaman found himself in difficulties.

The sea officer seemed unbothered. "If it is anything worth attention, the bo'sun will make a report of it," he replied.

Wasn't that just like Mister Alderbury, Tate thought. Always standing back until something was brought to him as a problem. He'd turn a blind eye to half the things going on aboard if they weren't pointed out to him. The only sea officer more inclined to inactivity was Mister Carver, but he was simply an idiot. Then again, officers in general were useful only for a few things in Tate's view.

"Wind's shiftin' a point, sir," the quartermaster at the helm reported, preventing Prewett from making an ill-timed grumble. Both Prewett and Alderbury looked up at the sails, then Alderbury was striding to the rail to order the yards braced around a point. The two boatswain's mates still on deck lifted their silver calls to their lips and the duty watch stirred at once. Tate barely understood the orders being bawled at the sailors but didn't care a whit. If he'd wanted to have anything to do with that sort of work, he would have gone for a Tar himself, but he was where he belonged and he knew it.

Presently, the boatswain returned, this time unaccompanied. He tramped up the quarterdeck steps, roundly ignoring the men of the afterguard as they completed their work, and saluted. "Two men in irons below, sir," he said stonily. "For drunkenness."

"Who are they?"

"Crabtree and Riggan, sir. They had a bottle stowed away from liberty, seems. It's been disposed of."

Alderbury nodded. "Thank you, Mister Matheson. Defaulters at six bells next watch, if you please."

"Aye aye, sir." Matheson saluted again and departed.

There was a grunt from Prewett as he bent to note this in the ship's log. It wasn't hard for Tate to guess his meaning. Riggan was a Yankee. That only proved it, didn't it? You couldn't trust a Yankee to keep himself in line.

"There are defaulters, Mister Alderbury?" Captain Leaford asked, appearing on the quarterdeck. It was all Tate could do not to start. The captain's approach had been utterly silent.

Alderbury touched his hat. "Yes sir. Two men for drunkenness. They'll be up for punishment at six bells next watch."

"I see." Leaford looked out over the ship and clasped his hands behind his back. "That will not do, Mister Alderbury. Defaulters at eight bells will suit. I shall not have justice delayed on my ship."

He liked the sound of that, Tate had to admit. A captain who didn't waste time when it came to dealing with troublemakers. That could only be a good thing. Certainly it might curb the antics of these damned Yankees. Maybe Captain Leaford might even turn the lot of them out of the ship. There was no place for any of that lot aboard a King's ship alongside steady, loyal Englishmen.

"Very well, sir." Alderbury turned away to make the necessary adjustment to the entry in the log.

"By the by. Who reported these two miscreants to you?"

"It was not reported directly to me, sir. I believe the matter was brought to Mister Matheson first, who attended to it, and who afterward came on deck to make his report."

The captain made a noise of disapproval. "That will not do at all. In future, sir, see to it that any problems amongst the crew are brought to your attention immediately, for you to take appropriate action."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Very good. It is nearly eight bells, I believe?" Leaford drew out his watch and made a show of checking it. "Pass the word for Mister Matheson. I should like a word with him."

"Boatswain to lay aft!" Aldebury called.

Behind the officers, Tate was hard-pressed to contain his confusion. Certainly the matter was straightforward enough? Two seamen had been found to be drunk. What else was there to learn about it? Unless Leaford wished to make his particular wishes known to the boatswain personally. In which case this was no more than a formality.

The boatswain came up the ladder and saluted. "Sent for, sir?"

"I am given to understand a man came to you with a report of trouble, which you went at once to sort out. Is this correct?"

"It is, sir. It was two men. A couple of the seven-bell lads."

Leaford nodded. "Quite. Who are these two, Mister Matheson?"

"Buckley and Day, sir. Both of 'em waisters."

The captain nodded again and glanced at Alderbury. He seemed almost pleased about something. Did he know something about the men Matheson had named that the boatswain didn't? Leaford's next words put a sharp stop to Tate's fledgling attempt to ponder that question, however, and again he was hard-pressed to keep his face blank.

"Four men for defaulters, Mister Alderbury," the captain said. "Two for drunkenness, two for negligence. You may place Buckley and Day in the leg-irons, Mister Matheson. That will be all."

There was a stunned silence as the boatswain saluted and made his departure. Prewett fixed his gaze on the sails overhead in order to hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth, while Alderbury bent quickly over the log to make this newest correction. For his part, Tate wasn't sure he could believe what he'd just heard.

It was only natural for Riggan and Crabtree to find themselves on the grating. They were fools for being caught drunk. Buckley and Day had done no crime, however. Unless sending for the boatswain to deal with what they couldn't counted as a crime. Was this an effort to scour out what the captain perceived as disgrace? It seemed a daft way to go about it.

The pealing of the bell from up forrard, four sets of paired rings, seemed to come too soon. Matheson and his mates had seen to the rigging of the grating. Now they trilled on their calls, piping All Hands. The ceremony of a flogging took precedence over normal routine, even that of meal-times, and the interruption of his routine annoyed Billy Springfield. He was stoutly fond of his grog ration and anything that kept him from it - barring, of course, a battle - was something to resent.

He settled into his usual place in the first rank of the parade on the quarterdeck and stared blankly at the mizzenmast. Like the others, he knew who the unlucky defaulters were but unlike the others, he didn't much care what their crimes were. As long as it wasn't him on the receiving end of the cat, he couldn't be bothered fretting like an old hen. Let the seamen act like idiots and get their rightful punishment for it.

The four defaulters were marched on deck, escorted by two Marines with muskets and fixed bayonets. Springfield didn't spare them a glance. This was a scene he had seen played out plenty of times before. If the soon-to-be-flogged men were Marines, he might have shown more interest. They were not, therefore he only wished for a swift end to this distraction.

"These men have been found wanting," Captain Leaford said, his voice sharp. He seemed to like hearing himself speak, didn't he? "Two permitted themselves to become drunk with hoarded spirits, while two failed in their rightful duty to bring their comrades' unhappy state to the attention of an officer. They are all, therefore, guilty of letting the ship down. I have already said that I do not hold with disgrace, and here are four men who have not heeded my words. They shall, accordingly, receive one dozen apiece and may they remember better what is expected of them. Mister Matheson! Seize the first man up!"

Sweet Jesus, Springfield found himself thinking. That was laying it on a little harsh. Not the best way to inspire obedience, either. He suppressed a sigh. He had heard stories about flogging captains but had never served under one himself. Now, it seemed, he was. Brilliant. At least Leaford did not yet seem to be the sort to take a dim view of drink as a whole. If he showed aversion to the regular grog issue... Springfield swallowed to moisten his throat. He could not imagine it to be tolerant serving under a captain who prohibited even that.

The regular swish and crack of the cat against Joe Riggan's back passed unheard by Springfield. He had become adept at tuning such sounds out. Instead, he occupied himself with considering the possibility to sneaking an extra tot for himself when at last they were dismissed below. These four unlucky bastards wouldn't be getting theirs after this, after all. Maybe he could manage it, if it was Corporal Jones supervising the grog issue.

Just as long as these floggings were over soon.