Dogwatches - Chapter 8
Jan. 23rd, 2012 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: 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, 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 | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
A full day had passed since Collins had broken his three senior Marines from their ranks and the shift in the detachment's mood was starkly noticeable. Not a man had spoken when he'd led the relief around at the change of watch, except for the briefest acknowledgement of their orders. Neither would any of them look him in the eye. There was a distinct feeling of resentment in the air and despite knowing he was the target of it, he could not help feeling frustrated by the situation. It was most certainly not entirely his fault that he had been forced to such a drastic action.
What truly hurt was the fact that not even his steward seemed willing to speak to him. Of all the men in the detachment, Alfred Hardy was the one in whom Collins had always been able to confide and be certain of the man's discretion and, more importantly, his simple wisdom. Now, the Londoner barely greeted him and spent no more time in the gunroom than he had to do. It was as if Collins had become labelled as someone to avoid at all costs. He'd tried once to address the matter to Hardy but his steward had deftly avoided conversation on that subject.
His only relief came in the fact that by taking on all responsibility for running and administering the detachment, he had little time for useless contemplations. Or, for necessary activities like eating and sleeping. Even the short span of twenty-four hours was sufficient to make that particular oversight plain to him. Nothing serious had gone wrong thus far however and Collins felt a little weariness was a small price to pay. If only he could shake the nagging feeling that his chosen course of action would ultimately prove disastrous.
Turning the detachment below after musket drill was a small relief on its own, for once he had seen the muskets account for and secured, he was able to return to the quarterdeck. The ship's officers were preparing to take the noon sight and, strangely, this afforded Collins a rare opportunity to be topside in relative peace. Other than to glance dismissively at him, Captain Leaford had not paid him any mind. Happily.
"Good morning, Major," Lieutenant Alderbury said, approaching on nearly-soundless feet. He held no sextant, which hinted strongly at his not taking direct part in the noon sight. Which was odd.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Collins returned with a nod.
Alderbury glanced at the expressionless Marine sentry standing stiffly by the wheel and said carefully, "I wondered if I might have a word?"
"Of course." It went without saying that any conversation must take place beyond the sentry's earshot. The sea officer's deliberate glance at the man had suggested as much. Collins stepped casually toward the rail, privately relieved that they would be on the opposite side of the quarterdeck as the rest of the ship's officers. The fewer listening ears, no doubt the better.
"You have, I believe, erred grievously." Alderbury lifted a hand slightly to forestall Collins' instinctive rebuke. "Forgive me for coming immediately to the point but on this matter I don't feel there's any use in dancing around the truth. In fairness, you've been under unseemly pressure and scrutiny from our esteemed captain, but I daresay that has been a cloud to otherwise sound judgment. Would you not agree on that, at least?"
Collins regarded him warily, not sure he was pleased to hear such plain talk on a matter that, strictly speaking, did not concern a sea officer. He and Alderbury were friends but that was a bond that only went so far. "I would," he replied after a moment. "Though I would submit that the behaviour of this ship's Marines has made my chosen course of action a necessity."
"Has it? As an outside party to all of this, I have observed little, if any, change in how your Marines have behaved. They have not comported themselves very differently now than they did under our previous captain. It is far more a case of a difference in how the present officer interprets the meaning and application of discipline, I should think. Certainly, I have observed much that suggests your Marines are more than capable of looking to their own affairs, albeit in their own ways. Without, I should add, such a drastic show of mistrust as you've made."
"I do not believe I - "
"Consider, sir," Alderbury interrupted. "Just two days ago, there was trouble with one of your lads and a couple midshipmen. That Marine put forward a perfectly sound idea designed to ease the lot of young Mister Hamilton. I have also observed that same Marine on deck looking after Mister Hamilton, to the extent of giving him instruction in the maintenance and use of a firelock. Then there is the matter of Chase and Private Higgins. Another of your men intervened between them and prevented a fight on the foc's'le, without needing to involve anyone of rank. Doing so would have ensured a flogging. Further, on the same day as your deciding to break them, I observed Corporal McIntyre doing his turn checking the sentries wearing a sword, which suggests quite firmly to me that he was aware of tensions between your Marines and the foremast hands, but was keen to be the first line of defence against trouble, without needing to make an official fuss of it."
"To my mind, that hardly constitutes successfully avoiding trouble."
Alderbury sighed. "Let me ask you, then. What has come of every instance of the men bringing issues to the attention of the ship's officers since our present captain took command?"
"Floggings."
"Precisely. The whole crew know it. They have adjusted themselves to suit. Your Marines included. Especially Sergeant Devlin. Ah, Major, I have my eyes and ears amongst the lower deck, perhaps moreso than you. Certainly what I have seen and been told leads me to conclude that you have not been as in harmony with the detachment as you should be. It is a failing you must own to and correct, sir, and not your men."
This was entirely too much condemnation for Collins to bear. His friend was miles wide of the mark! "If that all is as you say, I am hard-put to explain the feeling held by certain sailors that the Marines need looking after by the sailors themselves. Or the reality that the standard of discipline has not been upheld by the very men who are charged with maintaining it."
The sea officer's eyes flashed with a sudden anger but he managed to keep his tone level. "I would suggest that you have a care, Major. Your understanding of the state of affairs outside the bounds of your detachment is thin, at best. Thus far I have given you honest advice, as a friend if not a professional colleague, and now I suggest that you confine your attentions to following it. Leave concerns regarding the foremast hands to me. In particular, any concerns or actions relating to Jacob Chase - that man is my responsibility, sir, and not yours."
"Lieutenant Alderbury! Do you intend to join us this side of noon, sir?" Captain Leaford's voice reached across the deck, heavy with a sneer. That was the end of the conversation, thought Collins with no small measure of relief. For once, Leaford's interruption had proven welcome. He nodded once at Alderbury and turned toward the stairs. If the truth were known, he did not wholly appreciate the meaning behind the sea officer's remarks, even though he could grudgingly be admiring of the man's boldness in making them.
As he watched the captain retreat below, Nick Frazier felt his brow furrowing. He had not heard a word of the conversation between him and Mister Alderbury but it was impossible to miss the fact that it had not been friendly. That was all they needed. More discord between the officers. As if things weren't bad enough for the lads as it was!
"This's nobbut rubbish," he grumbled to himself and dug the marlin-spike into the line he was mending, with more force than strictly necessary.
A seaman sitting nearby glanced over. "Mebbe yew oughter learn the craft 'fore a-tryin' it, then, bucko!"
Frazier simply glared back before turning his gaze down to his work. He could splice, having been taught to by Dan Goodfellow. That idiot Tar just had no idea what was going on elsewhere on the weather deck. The memory of the almost-scrap between Higgins and Chase came to his mind and he grimaced. Or perhaps the beggar did. Seamen did seem to have an uncanny awareness of what went on around ship. Hopefully whatever had passed between the captain and Mister Alderbury would not trickle down to make the lads' lives any harder than they already were.
"Hsst! Frazier, mate. Where'way's Shaner at?"
"Eh? He's below. Why-fer d'thee - " He got no further, for Will Buckley vanished back down the forrard ladder as abruptly as he'd appeared. The seaman who'd rebuked him a moment before looked over again, this time with a puzzled frown.
"Yew isn't up to nothin', I hopes."
Equally confused, Frazier shook his head. "Ain't me. I doan't want moar trouble'n there's arready bin!"
"Gis that over, bucko, an' go after him. There's no trustin' Buckley when he's on a scheme an' I'll stake me pigtail he's got one runnin' right now." The seaman held out a hand for the line Fraizer was nearly finished with. He gave it over at once and shifted easily to his feet. No one gave him a second glance as he hurried down the ladder. It was just as well he was barefoot, he thought, as he made his way down to the messdeck. The less noise he made, the better.
It was easy to spot Buckley again, standing atop a sea-chest in the middle of the messdeck as he was. The starbowlins were gathered loosely around, drawn by Buckley's telling them "Do you all come close and hear a tale of courage and daring, such as will make you cheer for those noble souls upon their quest for fame and glory. What trials! What heartache! What heroics! Come, then, to attend Master Bard upon his throne!"
A frown touched Frazier's brow as he wound his way forward. There was a low murmur of cautious interest rolling over the gathered crowd of seamen. What was Buckley on about? More to the point, what was Shaner on about? The Hampshireman had appeared from the crowd behind Buckley, dressed almost comically in a green waistcoat and a foul weather tarpaulin, with a coachman's hat tipped rakishly back on his head. He stepped up onto the sea-chest Buckley had just vacated and, with a theatrical sweep of his arms, threw back the ends of the tarpaulin over his shoulders.
"This," he intoned after a deliberate pause, "is the tale of a man so great and noble that his name has not been forgotten over the centuries. He is Arthur Pendragon, born humbly yet destined to be a mighty king of England. In his youth, he was a common page! A mere servant to the knights of his guardian's household, and a more dispiriting life could not have been lived. Dawn until dusk with nothing but work, fetching, carrying, cleaning, waiting on his betters hand and foot. It was a hard lot for a lad of no older than twelve."
Shaner paused again, letting his gaze sweep over his audience. "He was but a day older than thirteen when Fortune smiled upon him. For, there was an enormous stone standing in the churchyard with a mighty sword stuck into it. Many knights of great strength had tried to draw the sword out and had failed. Many times, Arthur had stood before that stone and dreamed of drawing the sword out himself, but he had never dared. Who was he to try, he thought, because he was so young and unimportant, and grown men better than he had not managed it? Well! He was newly turned thirteen when he felt a great urge to climb up atop that rock, to curl his hands around the sword's hilt, and to pull with all of his strength. When we are boys, we think we can do great and grand things, and Arthur was no different. So he climbed atop that rock and he curled his hands the sword's hilt, and he prayed for strength, and he pulled - "
"And he did it!" Somebody burst out in a joyful voice, only to be immediately hushed for interrupting.
Grinning and unbothered, Shaner flung his arms into the air triumphantly. "He did! In one single draw, the mighty sword came free! Such was his surprise, Arthur fell from the stone, the sword clutched in his hard, rough, hands. He was so shocked at his feat that he could not speak. But oh! The clamour around him was quick and disbelieving and joyous. So many could not believe he had done such an impossible thing! But he had, the sword was in his hands and not in that rock. Arthur climbed back atop the rock and held his prize up high so everyone could see it. He was never again to be a mere servant boy, not with such a treasure to claim as his own. No, my lads, he was to be a knight, a proud, disciplined, respectable fighting man, and he would also one day be the king. No one could make him do the fetching, the carrying, the cleaning, ever again. And young Arthur, just thirteen, knew he was destined to be - "
"Private Shaner."
The voice was quiet, perhaps deliberately so, yet the hard note of authority in it brought a halt to Shaner's tale. Captain Collins had appeared and the deck around him instantly cleared. How long had he been listening? Hopefully not long, Frazier thought with sudden, fearful, guilt. He was supposed to be on deck with the duty watch, not skulking down here listening to a grand yarn being spun.
"Sir." Shaner stepped calmly down from the sea-chest, having managed somehow to shed his hat and tarpaulin cape in the space of only a heartbeat. Without a further word, he made his way aft, not pausing even to glance at his captain. It seemed he knew where he was expected to go. With his departure, the disappointed seamen went silently about their own business, dispersing with the unspoken grumbles that were their right whenever their leisure time was interrupted like this.
Collins turned his gaze in Frazier's direction. "Mister Colburn," the officer said stonily. "Confine this man in irons."
If it was possible, the boatswain's mate seemed almost surprised. "Sir," he replied after the barest of hesitations before taking Frazier by the elbow. Such was his own stunned disbelief that Frazier made no attempt to resist or pull away. What had he done to merit being placed under arrest? He allowed himself to be led aft and then up the ladder to the gundeck. Getting confined meant a flogging. Collins knew that. It was, therefore, a very harsh thing to order for one of his men on the spot, without any offence having been committed.
"By Christ, Nick, sure I dunno what this ship's comin' to," George Wicklow said in an undertone, arriving at the irons with his musket in hand. Mister Colburn didn't linger after locking the long iron bar securely over Frazier's ankles. Tellingly, he offered no rebuke to Wicklow for speaking out of turn.
"I ain't doan a thing but lissen to Shaner." Frazier shook his head slowly. "We ain't 'llowed to e'en spin yaarns, seems."
The tramp of shoes on the ladder forestalled any response Wicklow might have made. It was Captain Collins coming up, his impending arrival betrayed by the weather-tarnished lace on his cocked hat. Neither Marine showed any expression as their officer crossed the short distance between the leg-irons and the companionway.
"When you are on duty, Private Frazier, it means you are on duty. You are not a seaman who may come and go from the weatherdeck during his watch as it pleases him. If you had suspected there might be trouble, you would have been better served to inform me of it at once, instead of going below to investigate it yourself." Collins eyed him closely. "You know Captain Leaford's standards by now. It means a dozen lashes, at least. What will it take for you lads to learn?"
There was nothing he could say to that. Certainly nothing he should. Frazier accordingly said nothing and stared sightlessly over Collins' shoulder. It didn't matter anyway. His captain was already moving back toward the ladder going topside, his step brisk.
"Saints preserve us," Wicklow muttered in despair. Aye, thought Frazier with a growing sense of disgust. That just about summed it up.
~
"You oughta be glad it was yer officer stopped it," Dan Wiles said offhandedly as he filled his pipe. "If it'd been anybody else..."
He let the remark dangle, but he hardly needed to finish it. Frederick Devlin sucked glumly at his own pipe and gazed disinterestedly at the waves rolling past. The deepening twilight cast everything in shades of gentle dark blues and purples, but the beauty of the scene was completely lost on him. He had said very little in two days, since losing his hard-won rank. The breaking had left him embittered and resentful, moreso than the two corporals, who had not held their own ranks for anything like as long. Certainly there was no surer way to guarantee a man's bad opinion than this.
"Y'know," Wiles went on in that same casual tone. "It's seemin' to me that things are stackin' up 'gainst you boys. Chase an' his lot have had their fill of lettin' things go on as they have. I ain't anybody's rat, like, but what they're about right now's more'n due. Serves that windbag Shaner right, anyways."
One eyebrow arched and Devlin turned slowly toward the quartermaster's mate. "S'that you say?"
Wiles had the nerve to grin around the stem of his pipe. "You got ears, Dev. They work, don't they? Look, cully, Chase an' his boys given you bullocks plenny of chances. Now they're takin' things in hand. Since, like, you can't no more." The petty officer looked casually around before stepping a little closer and lowering his voice. "Thing of it is, Dev, it don't gotta go this way. Chase reckons he's cock of the walk on the barky, but he ain't one to think 'fore he starts swingin'. He's a topman, he ain't a'posed to think too hard. Now, me, like..."
Devlin waited, not ashamed to admit that he was intrigued. He remembered the run-in with Joe Cairn and his mate Tom, who was probably Tom Merton, and wondered if this might be a more well-grounded answer to that prelude. Even if, he thought, staying to hear Wiles out meant leaving one of his Marines in trouble. Which would serve the greater good? That was the question.
"What would it mean t'you, Dev, if we was to have a relief from how things is now? A bit of the old ways was to come back, like. Not all of 'em, of course, 'cause that ain't ever to happen. But enough to make the ship bearable again. Wouldn't that be grand?"
"Mebbe." Devlin shrugged. He suspected he knew where Wiles was going with this but he wanted to hear the words actually spoken before he believed it.
The quartermaster's mate seemed to be in no hurry, however. He was fly enough to realise that he could not let an unconsidered word slip. The dogwatches were on and there were a few seamen idling about on the foc's'le, so caution was certainly necessary. "What I'm thinkin', mate, is that once we're with the New York squadron, the cap'n might go ashore, like. Might be gone a while. There'd be a break from him then."
To that, Devlin only grunted. It was enough of an acknowledgement for Wiles.
"There's a few lads what think like I do. I been talkin' to 'em. Quiet like. Nicky Frazier's gettin' flogged today settled it, like, if you can believe it. Question is if we can trust you to be with us, Dev. There ain't a lad in the Marine detachment what's got as much sway as you."
Silence followed that for several minutes. It would not do to rush into a reply, either way. Devlin puffed slowly at his pipe and considered the matter. Three days ago, he would never have seriously thought about throwing his lot in with any scheme against the ship's officers. Now, though... now he felt precious few reservations. Why should he? It was Leaford's heavy-handed style of command that had turned Collins into a whipped puppy, which had in turn resulted in Devlin losing the one thing that he cherished most. Twenty-four years of sterling service as a Marine and nearly twelve as a sergeant. All wiped out in less than a month.
"I know what you're plannin'," Devlin said presently. The decision was one he could not go back on, but he saw no other option. Nothing remained, he felt, but disgrace if he stood by and did nothing. It would ultimately mean hanging for all of them. The inevitable outcome was worth the risk. He knew in his heart that Wiles was in the right of it. Something had to be done. "I'm in."
~
It was Sam Lachlan who helped an ashen-faced Shaner to the sickberth after discovering him curled up between the Number Five and Seven starboard guns. The former actor had been colted, badly, about the back. Blood was evident even through the bandage beneath his shirt. Getting him down the ladder to the sickberth had been no easy task and no help was offered from the hard-eyed seamen who watched Lachlan struggle. It was no more than he expected from them, he thought with silent rage. They had been the ones to inflict this on his mate.
"Doctor Finch, sir," the Scotsman called as he shouldered his way carelessly past the canvas curtain that separated the sickberth from the messdeck. "Got a lad fit's bad hurt, sir."
The sawbones glanced up, saw who it was, and came over at once to help. "Clear away the table!" Finch snapped at a bewildered Briggs, who belatedly hastened to obey. "Get him up there, carefully, and onto his side!"
It took a moment to manhandle Shaner up, even with him helping as best he could. Lachlan and Briggs wrestled Shaner's shirt off before rolling him carefully onto his stomach. Doctor Finch was already at work cutting away the ruined dressings on Shaner's back. What was revealed when they were peeled away made Lachlan swear. The slashes from the cat had been starting to heal but the hard knotted end of a starter had torn the scabs open and deepened a couple of furrows in the bargain.
"When did this happen?"
"I dinnae ken, sir. I foun' 'im on the gundeck, jes' ten minutes agoo, an' brung 'im reet doon." Lachlan felt sick. Till now, he'd figured all the talk of trouble between them and the seamen had been just that. Talk. Clearly it was not.
"They got my legs too, sir," Shaner offered in a strained voice. "Around the thighs and knees. Starting hurts some."
"That'll do," Finch said curtly as he gently patted a thick square of linen onto the bleeding furrows. "Roll him up onto his side and let's have his trousers off. Send for his officer, Briggs. Lieutenant Alderbury as well."
Briggs all but fled, leaving Lachlan to the work of drawing Shaner's trousers off. Beneath the loose canvas was an ugly mess of bruises and welts, with the odd thin gash that was oozing blood. Whoever had wielded that starter surely knew what he was doing with it.
"God damn," Lachlan muttered, his expression clouding.
"God," quipped Doctor Finch, "has nothing to do with this. This is the pure animal brutality of man at work. Captain Collins. Lieutenant Alderbury. Your timing is impeccable."
Lachlan stepped back as the two officers entered the sickberth. He could not bring himself to look in Captain Collins' direction.
"What in the name of God - "
"Someone, I dare say several someones, has used Private Shaner very poorly. As you can plainly see. He was just brought down by Private Lachlan. I have not asked him about the circumstances but neither will I, for these marks tell the story more than well enough." Finch sounded genuinely angry.
"Who did this, Private?" Lieutenant Alderbury asked.
"I saw no faces, sir. Nor did I hear any voices."
If Lachlan did not believe him, the officers surely would not. Shaner would know very well who had beaten him but he, like Lachlan or any other Marine worth his salt, would never offer up any names. Not about this.
"Are you sure, Shaner?"
"Positive, sir."
Doctor Finch busied himself with preparing a vinegar wash, his movements brisk, angry, and business-like. "I think that is patently untrue but I am not concerned with such details. As you can see, gentlemen, matters have escalated significantly. I should like a word with both of you after I have attended Private Shaner's new wounds." The sawbones looked pointedly at Lachlan and briefly softened. "Thank you, Private. You may go."
Just as well. Lachlan had no interest in hearing what excuses the officers might have for their failing to do anything to stop trouble before now. He patted Shaner's shoulder carefully on his way past, tempting Fate by ignoring the officers, and then was out of the sickberth. This was a matter that needed a quick and decisive response. It had gone quite beyond exchanging tough words. It was time to bring in some muscle.
"Bell. C'mere, laddie. I ha' need o' ye. There's adee wi' the Tars."
The Newcastleman looked up from the bayonet he had been sharpening. "Wha' ye jaain' aboot?"
"Cob Chase an' his lads fetched Shaner a loonerin'. I jist go' him tae th' sawbones. His back an' leigs is verra roch. They wus at him wi' a starter."
He had their full attention, most particularly Bell's, but it was Kit Davenport who spoke first. "You're sure it was Chase?"
" 'Oo'd else et be?" Higgins asked, already on his feet as if he intended to go after the seaman himself. " 'E bain't dun naught but be clittersome t'us'ns fer - "
"I mean," Davenport interrupted, "did Shaner say it was Chase and his mates?"
"It was." The confirmation came from Shaner himself. He was walking unaided, though very carefully, and Lachlan was quick to help him sit on the very edge of a bench at the nearest mess table. "He had a turn with the starter. There were three of them."
"Whee's 'em uvver two?"
There was a deliberate pause before Shaner answered, "Dyer was one. I can't be sure of the third, he never spoke and I didn't see him."
Chase and Dyer. That was more than good enough for Lachlan. "Tha's reet in yer line, laddie," he said to Bell, who was already unbuttoning his off-watch jacket.
"D'thee need - " Frazier began.
"Divvent." With that curt brush-off of Frazier's interrupted offer, Bell went forward. It was no surprise. James Bell had been in a colliery gang before finding that taking the King's shilling was the better part of a deal in which the other option was the noose. He was more than equal to a pair of over-bold seamen.
" 'Ope 'e kills 'im," muttered Higgins.
" 'Ve a mind t'help him," Frazier grunted. He looked as though he wished he had gone with Bell despite the Geordie's refusal of any aid. "Ain't reight no' ta ha' a go m'sen."
Mattie Barrett carefully set aside his mug of water and leaned forward over the mess table, using his elbows to prop himself up. "Et oughter be Davey 'oo 'as a go, 'cuz et were him they giv 'at thumpin' ter."
"You boys had best be careful with your talkin'," Davenport interjected. "Mister Thurlow's got one of the ship's boys spyin' on us an' the Tars. Soon's he gets wind of this..."
That tidbit of information brought them all around sharply. Lachlan scowled. "Fit ye say?"
"Which'n of 'em be et?" Higgins demanded.
"If I told you, you'd all give the lad a beltin'. Or worse," was the reply. "I don't object to lads gettin' a thumpin' when they deserves it, but a boy? No, mates, that'll not be on my conscience."
"Divvil tak' thy conscience," sneered Smith. " 'Tis a' lieklee tha' nipper's peached on thee an' go' thee some stripes afore naow. 'Ow's tha' set wi' thy conscience?"
Davenport bristled. "I don't hold with bullyin', Smith, and that's what Mister Thurlow's been doin'. But I don't hold with abusin' youngsters who're bullied into doin' bad neither. Chase is one thing. I'm not sorry Bell's gonna use his guts for garters. But nippers? No. It's enough for you lot to know how that middie finds out everythin' he does."
"You boys'd do well to button your gobs," Brendan McIntyre said in a no-nonsense voice. "I ain't got a knot on me shoulder anymore but I'll still whip the lot of you, if you don't stop this fool talk right bleedin' now."
That served to silence the heated chatter, but glowers were still exchanged between Davenport and the others. The mood, not having been particularly cheerful to begin with, was now openly hostile. Only the sudden outbreak of raised voices from up forrard broke the tense silence but none of the Marines moved to see what the commotion was about. They already knew. Bell had been caught. The collective, unspoken hope was that he'd been able to make Chase understand that the Marines were not to be trifled with, as only James Bell could.
~
Defaulters parade the following day saw two men up for striped shirts. James Bell, his craggy face indifferent, was one of them. Jacob Chase was the other. The topman was holding himself carefully even before he was seized up and when it was his turn at the grating, the sight of his heavily-bruised back gave Mister Matheson pause.
"Get on with it, Mister Matheson!" Captain Leaford snarled, unaware of the reason for the boatswain's hesitation.
The flogging went on with particular swiftness, Colbert Smith thought. A gesture of kindness on Mister Colburn's part? It was possible. Not that Smith cared all that much. Chase had gotten what he deserved. Now, Bell and Chase had been flogged for fighting. It was nothing to Bell but Smith suspected that the incident had shaken Chase's confidence. He would have believed himself above any retribution, until Bell had appeared like an avenging wraith and bundled him down to the orlop. Only the intervention of the midshipmen had spared Chase from worse than a beating. Still. Smith reckoned that Chase should consider himself lucky to still be alive. Bell was not known for his merciful nature.
As the Marines filtered back into the messdeck after turning in their muskets, Smith noted the presence of midshipmen at both ladders and the senior petty officers scattered obviously around the messdeck. Something was in the wind. A deterrent against further trouble or a sign they were all in for just that?
" 'Ow's ye feelin', Davey?" Lachlan asked of David Shaner, who had been excused from parade.
Shaner eased himself up a little in his hammock and tried on a grin. "Fresh as a daisy, Sammy mate. Where's Bell at? I owe him a tot."
The remark was met with a few scattered chuckles, though the men took care to not be too loud. Smith settled in at his mess table to resume the job of sewing a button back onto his left gaiter. He'd had to borrow Shaner's gaiters for parade. Conversation tapered off as the others likewise got down to work, but it was impossible to shake the feeling of being closely watched. There were two midshipmen near each ladder still and the boatswain's mates were prowling restlessly. Obviously, Smith decided, they were meant as a deterrent to further trouble.
Were it not for the slight stiffening up of postures around him, Smith would not have been aware of the presence of an officer in their part of the messdeck. It was not Captain Collins or one of the sea officers, but only a middie. Mister Midshipman Hamilton, in fact. The tiny freckle-faced boy clutched a small canvas bundle to his chest, staring warily at the Marines as if he expected them all to attack him at once, before his gaze settled on Lachlan.
"Sir," said Lachlan, brushing a curled knuckle past his brow as he rose to greet the young gentleman. The offered obedience made Mister Hamilton's face flush dark and Smith belatedly realised that the lad wore slops, instead of his uniform. What the devil...?
"Er, I... I... am not an officer, S-S-Sam," the lad stammered, looking on the verge of flight. "I am b-before the m-m-mast. So I can l-learn my trade p-p-properly..."
An invisible sigh rolled over the messdeck. Instant sympathy was on almost every face, most particularly Lachlan's. What a terrible thing to do to the nipper! The muscles in Smith's jaw tightened and he looked deliberately aft, where Mister Morse was one of the midshipmen loitering obviously by the ladder. He was not the only to do so and Mister Morse, no doubt aware of the reason for such close study, fidgeted uncomfortably.
"C'mon, lad," Kit Davenport said, shifting aside to make room for the disrated midshipman. "Seems you're in good company now. This here's the place for the damned and the disgraced, 'parently."
Mister Hamilton bit his lip and shivered. "I h-h-hate hem!" He burst out feelingly, and promptly buried his face into Lachlan's shirt, clinging to his countryman as if Lachlan was a life buoy in a gale. Perhaps, Smith thought sadly, he was. He laid his gaiter aside and twisted around to reach into his sea-chest. The detachment was not allowed grog anymore but that didn't mean there weren't hoarded treats stashed here and there.
"Here, nipper." Smith held out the little linen bag that contained the last of his molasses candy. "Haave thee some o' this, 'twill do thee good."
It was Lachlan who accepted the bag, however, but it was close enough. The silence that lay over the messdeck was now distinctly sad more than unhappy. Smith did not know which of those feelings he liked less. He gazed disinterestedly at the half-sewn-on button and sighed. The hope that joining the New York squadron might improve matters aboard was fading fast.
Aft, by the gunroom, Captain Collins watched the scene just long enough to see Lachlan put his arms around the sobbing ex-midshipman. He had not witnessed the actual disrating but he'd heard about it promptly enough from an angry Gabriel Alderbury. The overall mood of the lower deck was turning decidedly ugly but none of the officers had any idea how to stop it worsening. Even Lieutenant Simcoe was noticing signs that things were not as they should be. And that, Collins thought wearily as he withdrew into the gunroom, meant things were very bad indeed.
"Jonathan."
The cold, one-word hail brought him up short, just before he could disappear into his cabin. He knew the voice and he knew the reason he was being hailed. Right then, the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with Alderbury, especially after the roasting they had both gotten from Doctor Finch the day before.
"Lieutenant Alderbury."
"A word, if you please." Alderbury sat at the gunroom table, his worn and faded seagoing coat draped over the chair beside him. A leather-bound book lay open before him but as Collins approached the table, Alderbury pointedly eased the book closed. He did not seem concerned that Doctor Finch and Mister Quinn were present as well.
"May I ask what about?"
"Your men, sir," was the curt response. "In particular Private James Bell. What passed between him and Jacob Chase was not a fight, but rather a deliberate seeking of revenge. I regret what happened to Private Shaner. Given time, I would have addressed the matter. Instead, your men took it upon themselves to arrange a beating of one of my men and sent the most cruelly violent fellow amongst them off to administer it!"
Collins' jaw tightened. He hadn't wanted a confrontation but with one staring him in the face, he was not about to back down. "Need I remind you, sir, that the beating of Private Shaner, at the hands of Jacob Chase and at least one other sailor, is what occasioned Private Bell's involvement. Were that matter promptly addressed, I dare say recriminations would have been prevented."
"I should like to point out that it was, in fact, the inflammatory storytelling of Private Shaner that set all of this in train, a performance which - "
"Which I put a halt to the instant I knew of it," Collins interrupted. "I made him unmistakeably aware of the folly of stirring up the men's fantasies with grand tales, and also in making a mockery of the ship and her officers with songs. The next he makes such an exhibition, sir, I intend to bring him to court-martial. Further, I ordered Private Frazier confined for merely being present in the audience for that storytelling. What more would you have me do, pray, short of keeping them all at work night and day and thereby making them too tired and worn for any service ashore?"
A glass rattled just audibly on the table. "Gentlemen," said Doctor Finch. "If you please."
Unbidden, Mister Quinn placed two tumblers of brandy onto the table, one near Alderbury and the other where Collins could easily reach it. "The men," the acting lieutenant observed in a carefully neutral tone, "may exchange an eye for an eye all they wish, so long as they present no danger to the ship. I confess, however, a particular concern for the wellbeing of one of my former mess. Thomas Hamilton has been turned before the mast and this makes him a vastly easier target for negative attention. I'll speak plainly lest there be any doubt. Midshipman Thurlow is a bully. Mister Morse and I have done what we could to keep him in check, but of course circumtances are different now."
The young man paused to sip lightly from his own tumbler before continuing. Perhaps choosing his words? Given the subject he had turned the conversation to, it would be little wonder. "It's my understanding that Jacob Chase was previously appointed to be Mister Hamilton's sea daddy. Further, Private Lachlan seems to have become, somehow, an ally to Mister Hamilton. Both men, I think, must have some measure of redeeming worth to them, all other incidents and troubles aside, for I can tell you in complete honesty that Thomas Hamilton does not trust lightly. Nor, may I add, does he learn so quickly as when gently taught. May I thus propose that we consider those episodes of recent days as resolved and attempt to do what we can to prevent unpleasanties with those who can't look out for themselves?"
"That, sir, is a capital suggestion." Finch sat casually back in his chair. "I may presume to be bold and point out that with Jacob Chase on light duties for the present time, he is ideally placed to serve as a constant companion for Mister Hamilton?"
What a deft stroke, Collins marvelled. It almost seemed that Finch and Quinn had planned this argument and merely waited for an oppotune moment to make it. He reached for his tumbler of brandy and allowed himself to forget Alderbury's hot words. This was, as Quinn rightly pointed out, of rather more importance in the broader scheme of things. "I see no cause for objection," he said. "And would add that my Marines, Private Lachlan foremost, appear to have been to whom Mister Hamilton went to first after he was disrated."
"Let it be so," Alderbury agreed after a moment's thought. "If it hasn't already been done, I'll see to Mister Hamilton's addition to the watch bill, so he might find himself in my own division. The larbowlins will do for him. He may," the second luff added with just a hint of irony, "thus find himself with the Marines of that watch, doing duty as a waister."
Quinn did not smile, though he was more than entitled to. "I'm obliged, sirs, and so is Mister Hamilton."
In two swallows, Collins drank off his brandy and set the empty tumbler onto the table. He would have to send for Lachlan and lay this new scheme out to him, since it appeared the Scotsman was the nearest Hamilton had to a real friend on the lower deck. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." He waited just long enough for the other three to nod before crossing to the gunroom door, where he instructed Wicklow to pass the word for Lachlan. It was also going to be necessary to speak to McIntyre, Jones, and Devlin about this, wasn't it? Even though he'd broken those three of their ranks. Damn it. Perhaps, Collins thought in weary resignation, he was going to have swallow his pride and admit he'd committed a grievous mistake in that regard. Confessing as much to them was going to be damned hard, when it came to that.
"Private Lachlan, sir," Wicklow called out, and for the time being, Collins put those thoughts aside. Only one problem could be solved at a time. He was learning that the hard way, it seemed.
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, 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 | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
A full day had passed since Collins had broken his three senior Marines from their ranks and the shift in the detachment's mood was starkly noticeable. Not a man had spoken when he'd led the relief around at the change of watch, except for the briefest acknowledgement of their orders. Neither would any of them look him in the eye. There was a distinct feeling of resentment in the air and despite knowing he was the target of it, he could not help feeling frustrated by the situation. It was most certainly not entirely his fault that he had been forced to such a drastic action.
What truly hurt was the fact that not even his steward seemed willing to speak to him. Of all the men in the detachment, Alfred Hardy was the one in whom Collins had always been able to confide and be certain of the man's discretion and, more importantly, his simple wisdom. Now, the Londoner barely greeted him and spent no more time in the gunroom than he had to do. It was as if Collins had become labelled as someone to avoid at all costs. He'd tried once to address the matter to Hardy but his steward had deftly avoided conversation on that subject.
His only relief came in the fact that by taking on all responsibility for running and administering the detachment, he had little time for useless contemplations. Or, for necessary activities like eating and sleeping. Even the short span of twenty-four hours was sufficient to make that particular oversight plain to him. Nothing serious had gone wrong thus far however and Collins felt a little weariness was a small price to pay. If only he could shake the nagging feeling that his chosen course of action would ultimately prove disastrous.
Turning the detachment below after musket drill was a small relief on its own, for once he had seen the muskets account for and secured, he was able to return to the quarterdeck. The ship's officers were preparing to take the noon sight and, strangely, this afforded Collins a rare opportunity to be topside in relative peace. Other than to glance dismissively at him, Captain Leaford had not paid him any mind. Happily.
"Good morning, Major," Lieutenant Alderbury said, approaching on nearly-soundless feet. He held no sextant, which hinted strongly at his not taking direct part in the noon sight. Which was odd.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Collins returned with a nod.
Alderbury glanced at the expressionless Marine sentry standing stiffly by the wheel and said carefully, "I wondered if I might have a word?"
"Of course." It went without saying that any conversation must take place beyond the sentry's earshot. The sea officer's deliberate glance at the man had suggested as much. Collins stepped casually toward the rail, privately relieved that they would be on the opposite side of the quarterdeck as the rest of the ship's officers. The fewer listening ears, no doubt the better.
"You have, I believe, erred grievously." Alderbury lifted a hand slightly to forestall Collins' instinctive rebuke. "Forgive me for coming immediately to the point but on this matter I don't feel there's any use in dancing around the truth. In fairness, you've been under unseemly pressure and scrutiny from our esteemed captain, but I daresay that has been a cloud to otherwise sound judgment. Would you not agree on that, at least?"
Collins regarded him warily, not sure he was pleased to hear such plain talk on a matter that, strictly speaking, did not concern a sea officer. He and Alderbury were friends but that was a bond that only went so far. "I would," he replied after a moment. "Though I would submit that the behaviour of this ship's Marines has made my chosen course of action a necessity."
"Has it? As an outside party to all of this, I have observed little, if any, change in how your Marines have behaved. They have not comported themselves very differently now than they did under our previous captain. It is far more a case of a difference in how the present officer interprets the meaning and application of discipline, I should think. Certainly, I have observed much that suggests your Marines are more than capable of looking to their own affairs, albeit in their own ways. Without, I should add, such a drastic show of mistrust as you've made."
"I do not believe I - "
"Consider, sir," Alderbury interrupted. "Just two days ago, there was trouble with one of your lads and a couple midshipmen. That Marine put forward a perfectly sound idea designed to ease the lot of young Mister Hamilton. I have also observed that same Marine on deck looking after Mister Hamilton, to the extent of giving him instruction in the maintenance and use of a firelock. Then there is the matter of Chase and Private Higgins. Another of your men intervened between them and prevented a fight on the foc's'le, without needing to involve anyone of rank. Doing so would have ensured a flogging. Further, on the same day as your deciding to break them, I observed Corporal McIntyre doing his turn checking the sentries wearing a sword, which suggests quite firmly to me that he was aware of tensions between your Marines and the foremast hands, but was keen to be the first line of defence against trouble, without needing to make an official fuss of it."
"To my mind, that hardly constitutes successfully avoiding trouble."
Alderbury sighed. "Let me ask you, then. What has come of every instance of the men bringing issues to the attention of the ship's officers since our present captain took command?"
"Floggings."
"Precisely. The whole crew know it. They have adjusted themselves to suit. Your Marines included. Especially Sergeant Devlin. Ah, Major, I have my eyes and ears amongst the lower deck, perhaps moreso than you. Certainly what I have seen and been told leads me to conclude that you have not been as in harmony with the detachment as you should be. It is a failing you must own to and correct, sir, and not your men."
This was entirely too much condemnation for Collins to bear. His friend was miles wide of the mark! "If that all is as you say, I am hard-put to explain the feeling held by certain sailors that the Marines need looking after by the sailors themselves. Or the reality that the standard of discipline has not been upheld by the very men who are charged with maintaining it."
The sea officer's eyes flashed with a sudden anger but he managed to keep his tone level. "I would suggest that you have a care, Major. Your understanding of the state of affairs outside the bounds of your detachment is thin, at best. Thus far I have given you honest advice, as a friend if not a professional colleague, and now I suggest that you confine your attentions to following it. Leave concerns regarding the foremast hands to me. In particular, any concerns or actions relating to Jacob Chase - that man is my responsibility, sir, and not yours."
"Lieutenant Alderbury! Do you intend to join us this side of noon, sir?" Captain Leaford's voice reached across the deck, heavy with a sneer. That was the end of the conversation, thought Collins with no small measure of relief. For once, Leaford's interruption had proven welcome. He nodded once at Alderbury and turned toward the stairs. If the truth were known, he did not wholly appreciate the meaning behind the sea officer's remarks, even though he could grudgingly be admiring of the man's boldness in making them.
As he watched the captain retreat below, Nick Frazier felt his brow furrowing. He had not heard a word of the conversation between him and Mister Alderbury but it was impossible to miss the fact that it had not been friendly. That was all they needed. More discord between the officers. As if things weren't bad enough for the lads as it was!
"This's nobbut rubbish," he grumbled to himself and dug the marlin-spike into the line he was mending, with more force than strictly necessary.
A seaman sitting nearby glanced over. "Mebbe yew oughter learn the craft 'fore a-tryin' it, then, bucko!"
Frazier simply glared back before turning his gaze down to his work. He could splice, having been taught to by Dan Goodfellow. That idiot Tar just had no idea what was going on elsewhere on the weather deck. The memory of the almost-scrap between Higgins and Chase came to his mind and he grimaced. Or perhaps the beggar did. Seamen did seem to have an uncanny awareness of what went on around ship. Hopefully whatever had passed between the captain and Mister Alderbury would not trickle down to make the lads' lives any harder than they already were.
"Hsst! Frazier, mate. Where'way's Shaner at?"
"Eh? He's below. Why-fer d'thee - " He got no further, for Will Buckley vanished back down the forrard ladder as abruptly as he'd appeared. The seaman who'd rebuked him a moment before looked over again, this time with a puzzled frown.
"Yew isn't up to nothin', I hopes."
Equally confused, Frazier shook his head. "Ain't me. I doan't want moar trouble'n there's arready bin!"
"Gis that over, bucko, an' go after him. There's no trustin' Buckley when he's on a scheme an' I'll stake me pigtail he's got one runnin' right now." The seaman held out a hand for the line Fraizer was nearly finished with. He gave it over at once and shifted easily to his feet. No one gave him a second glance as he hurried down the ladder. It was just as well he was barefoot, he thought, as he made his way down to the messdeck. The less noise he made, the better.
It was easy to spot Buckley again, standing atop a sea-chest in the middle of the messdeck as he was. The starbowlins were gathered loosely around, drawn by Buckley's telling them "Do you all come close and hear a tale of courage and daring, such as will make you cheer for those noble souls upon their quest for fame and glory. What trials! What heartache! What heroics! Come, then, to attend Master Bard upon his throne!"
A frown touched Frazier's brow as he wound his way forward. There was a low murmur of cautious interest rolling over the gathered crowd of seamen. What was Buckley on about? More to the point, what was Shaner on about? The Hampshireman had appeared from the crowd behind Buckley, dressed almost comically in a green waistcoat and a foul weather tarpaulin, with a coachman's hat tipped rakishly back on his head. He stepped up onto the sea-chest Buckley had just vacated and, with a theatrical sweep of his arms, threw back the ends of the tarpaulin over his shoulders.
"This," he intoned after a deliberate pause, "is the tale of a man so great and noble that his name has not been forgotten over the centuries. He is Arthur Pendragon, born humbly yet destined to be a mighty king of England. In his youth, he was a common page! A mere servant to the knights of his guardian's household, and a more dispiriting life could not have been lived. Dawn until dusk with nothing but work, fetching, carrying, cleaning, waiting on his betters hand and foot. It was a hard lot for a lad of no older than twelve."
Shaner paused again, letting his gaze sweep over his audience. "He was but a day older than thirteen when Fortune smiled upon him. For, there was an enormous stone standing in the churchyard with a mighty sword stuck into it. Many knights of great strength had tried to draw the sword out and had failed. Many times, Arthur had stood before that stone and dreamed of drawing the sword out himself, but he had never dared. Who was he to try, he thought, because he was so young and unimportant, and grown men better than he had not managed it? Well! He was newly turned thirteen when he felt a great urge to climb up atop that rock, to curl his hands around the sword's hilt, and to pull with all of his strength. When we are boys, we think we can do great and grand things, and Arthur was no different. So he climbed atop that rock and he curled his hands the sword's hilt, and he prayed for strength, and he pulled - "
"And he did it!" Somebody burst out in a joyful voice, only to be immediately hushed for interrupting.
Grinning and unbothered, Shaner flung his arms into the air triumphantly. "He did! In one single draw, the mighty sword came free! Such was his surprise, Arthur fell from the stone, the sword clutched in his hard, rough, hands. He was so shocked at his feat that he could not speak. But oh! The clamour around him was quick and disbelieving and joyous. So many could not believe he had done such an impossible thing! But he had, the sword was in his hands and not in that rock. Arthur climbed back atop the rock and held his prize up high so everyone could see it. He was never again to be a mere servant boy, not with such a treasure to claim as his own. No, my lads, he was to be a knight, a proud, disciplined, respectable fighting man, and he would also one day be the king. No one could make him do the fetching, the carrying, the cleaning, ever again. And young Arthur, just thirteen, knew he was destined to be - "
"Private Shaner."
The voice was quiet, perhaps deliberately so, yet the hard note of authority in it brought a halt to Shaner's tale. Captain Collins had appeared and the deck around him instantly cleared. How long had he been listening? Hopefully not long, Frazier thought with sudden, fearful, guilt. He was supposed to be on deck with the duty watch, not skulking down here listening to a grand yarn being spun.
"Sir." Shaner stepped calmly down from the sea-chest, having managed somehow to shed his hat and tarpaulin cape in the space of only a heartbeat. Without a further word, he made his way aft, not pausing even to glance at his captain. It seemed he knew where he was expected to go. With his departure, the disappointed seamen went silently about their own business, dispersing with the unspoken grumbles that were their right whenever their leisure time was interrupted like this.
Collins turned his gaze in Frazier's direction. "Mister Colburn," the officer said stonily. "Confine this man in irons."
If it was possible, the boatswain's mate seemed almost surprised. "Sir," he replied after the barest of hesitations before taking Frazier by the elbow. Such was his own stunned disbelief that Frazier made no attempt to resist or pull away. What had he done to merit being placed under arrest? He allowed himself to be led aft and then up the ladder to the gundeck. Getting confined meant a flogging. Collins knew that. It was, therefore, a very harsh thing to order for one of his men on the spot, without any offence having been committed.
"By Christ, Nick, sure I dunno what this ship's comin' to," George Wicklow said in an undertone, arriving at the irons with his musket in hand. Mister Colburn didn't linger after locking the long iron bar securely over Frazier's ankles. Tellingly, he offered no rebuke to Wicklow for speaking out of turn.
"I ain't doan a thing but lissen to Shaner." Frazier shook his head slowly. "We ain't 'llowed to e'en spin yaarns, seems."
The tramp of shoes on the ladder forestalled any response Wicklow might have made. It was Captain Collins coming up, his impending arrival betrayed by the weather-tarnished lace on his cocked hat. Neither Marine showed any expression as their officer crossed the short distance between the leg-irons and the companionway.
"When you are on duty, Private Frazier, it means you are on duty. You are not a seaman who may come and go from the weatherdeck during his watch as it pleases him. If you had suspected there might be trouble, you would have been better served to inform me of it at once, instead of going below to investigate it yourself." Collins eyed him closely. "You know Captain Leaford's standards by now. It means a dozen lashes, at least. What will it take for you lads to learn?"
There was nothing he could say to that. Certainly nothing he should. Frazier accordingly said nothing and stared sightlessly over Collins' shoulder. It didn't matter anyway. His captain was already moving back toward the ladder going topside, his step brisk.
"Saints preserve us," Wicklow muttered in despair. Aye, thought Frazier with a growing sense of disgust. That just about summed it up.
~
"You oughta be glad it was yer officer stopped it," Dan Wiles said offhandedly as he filled his pipe. "If it'd been anybody else..."
He let the remark dangle, but he hardly needed to finish it. Frederick Devlin sucked glumly at his own pipe and gazed disinterestedly at the waves rolling past. The deepening twilight cast everything in shades of gentle dark blues and purples, but the beauty of the scene was completely lost on him. He had said very little in two days, since losing his hard-won rank. The breaking had left him embittered and resentful, moreso than the two corporals, who had not held their own ranks for anything like as long. Certainly there was no surer way to guarantee a man's bad opinion than this.
"Y'know," Wiles went on in that same casual tone. "It's seemin' to me that things are stackin' up 'gainst you boys. Chase an' his lot have had their fill of lettin' things go on as they have. I ain't anybody's rat, like, but what they're about right now's more'n due. Serves that windbag Shaner right, anyways."
One eyebrow arched and Devlin turned slowly toward the quartermaster's mate. "S'that you say?"
Wiles had the nerve to grin around the stem of his pipe. "You got ears, Dev. They work, don't they? Look, cully, Chase an' his boys given you bullocks plenny of chances. Now they're takin' things in hand. Since, like, you can't no more." The petty officer looked casually around before stepping a little closer and lowering his voice. "Thing of it is, Dev, it don't gotta go this way. Chase reckons he's cock of the walk on the barky, but he ain't one to think 'fore he starts swingin'. He's a topman, he ain't a'posed to think too hard. Now, me, like..."
Devlin waited, not ashamed to admit that he was intrigued. He remembered the run-in with Joe Cairn and his mate Tom, who was probably Tom Merton, and wondered if this might be a more well-grounded answer to that prelude. Even if, he thought, staying to hear Wiles out meant leaving one of his Marines in trouble. Which would serve the greater good? That was the question.
"What would it mean t'you, Dev, if we was to have a relief from how things is now? A bit of the old ways was to come back, like. Not all of 'em, of course, 'cause that ain't ever to happen. But enough to make the ship bearable again. Wouldn't that be grand?"
"Mebbe." Devlin shrugged. He suspected he knew where Wiles was going with this but he wanted to hear the words actually spoken before he believed it.
The quartermaster's mate seemed to be in no hurry, however. He was fly enough to realise that he could not let an unconsidered word slip. The dogwatches were on and there were a few seamen idling about on the foc's'le, so caution was certainly necessary. "What I'm thinkin', mate, is that once we're with the New York squadron, the cap'n might go ashore, like. Might be gone a while. There'd be a break from him then."
To that, Devlin only grunted. It was enough of an acknowledgement for Wiles.
"There's a few lads what think like I do. I been talkin' to 'em. Quiet like. Nicky Frazier's gettin' flogged today settled it, like, if you can believe it. Question is if we can trust you to be with us, Dev. There ain't a lad in the Marine detachment what's got as much sway as you."
Silence followed that for several minutes. It would not do to rush into a reply, either way. Devlin puffed slowly at his pipe and considered the matter. Three days ago, he would never have seriously thought about throwing his lot in with any scheme against the ship's officers. Now, though... now he felt precious few reservations. Why should he? It was Leaford's heavy-handed style of command that had turned Collins into a whipped puppy, which had in turn resulted in Devlin losing the one thing that he cherished most. Twenty-four years of sterling service as a Marine and nearly twelve as a sergeant. All wiped out in less than a month.
"I know what you're plannin'," Devlin said presently. The decision was one he could not go back on, but he saw no other option. Nothing remained, he felt, but disgrace if he stood by and did nothing. It would ultimately mean hanging for all of them. The inevitable outcome was worth the risk. He knew in his heart that Wiles was in the right of it. Something had to be done. "I'm in."
~
It was Sam Lachlan who helped an ashen-faced Shaner to the sickberth after discovering him curled up between the Number Five and Seven starboard guns. The former actor had been colted, badly, about the back. Blood was evident even through the bandage beneath his shirt. Getting him down the ladder to the sickberth had been no easy task and no help was offered from the hard-eyed seamen who watched Lachlan struggle. It was no more than he expected from them, he thought with silent rage. They had been the ones to inflict this on his mate.
"Doctor Finch, sir," the Scotsman called as he shouldered his way carelessly past the canvas curtain that separated the sickberth from the messdeck. "Got a lad fit's bad hurt, sir."
The sawbones glanced up, saw who it was, and came over at once to help. "Clear away the table!" Finch snapped at a bewildered Briggs, who belatedly hastened to obey. "Get him up there, carefully, and onto his side!"
It took a moment to manhandle Shaner up, even with him helping as best he could. Lachlan and Briggs wrestled Shaner's shirt off before rolling him carefully onto his stomach. Doctor Finch was already at work cutting away the ruined dressings on Shaner's back. What was revealed when they were peeled away made Lachlan swear. The slashes from the cat had been starting to heal but the hard knotted end of a starter had torn the scabs open and deepened a couple of furrows in the bargain.
"When did this happen?"
"I dinnae ken, sir. I foun' 'im on the gundeck, jes' ten minutes agoo, an' brung 'im reet doon." Lachlan felt sick. Till now, he'd figured all the talk of trouble between them and the seamen had been just that. Talk. Clearly it was not.
"They got my legs too, sir," Shaner offered in a strained voice. "Around the thighs and knees. Starting hurts some."
"That'll do," Finch said curtly as he gently patted a thick square of linen onto the bleeding furrows. "Roll him up onto his side and let's have his trousers off. Send for his officer, Briggs. Lieutenant Alderbury as well."
Briggs all but fled, leaving Lachlan to the work of drawing Shaner's trousers off. Beneath the loose canvas was an ugly mess of bruises and welts, with the odd thin gash that was oozing blood. Whoever had wielded that starter surely knew what he was doing with it.
"God damn," Lachlan muttered, his expression clouding.
"God," quipped Doctor Finch, "has nothing to do with this. This is the pure animal brutality of man at work. Captain Collins. Lieutenant Alderbury. Your timing is impeccable."
Lachlan stepped back as the two officers entered the sickberth. He could not bring himself to look in Captain Collins' direction.
"What in the name of God - "
"Someone, I dare say several someones, has used Private Shaner very poorly. As you can plainly see. He was just brought down by Private Lachlan. I have not asked him about the circumstances but neither will I, for these marks tell the story more than well enough." Finch sounded genuinely angry.
"Who did this, Private?" Lieutenant Alderbury asked.
"I saw no faces, sir. Nor did I hear any voices."
If Lachlan did not believe him, the officers surely would not. Shaner would know very well who had beaten him but he, like Lachlan or any other Marine worth his salt, would never offer up any names. Not about this.
"Are you sure, Shaner?"
"Positive, sir."
Doctor Finch busied himself with preparing a vinegar wash, his movements brisk, angry, and business-like. "I think that is patently untrue but I am not concerned with such details. As you can see, gentlemen, matters have escalated significantly. I should like a word with both of you after I have attended Private Shaner's new wounds." The sawbones looked pointedly at Lachlan and briefly softened. "Thank you, Private. You may go."
Just as well. Lachlan had no interest in hearing what excuses the officers might have for their failing to do anything to stop trouble before now. He patted Shaner's shoulder carefully on his way past, tempting Fate by ignoring the officers, and then was out of the sickberth. This was a matter that needed a quick and decisive response. It had gone quite beyond exchanging tough words. It was time to bring in some muscle.
"Bell. C'mere, laddie. I ha' need o' ye. There's adee wi' the Tars."
The Newcastleman looked up from the bayonet he had been sharpening. "Wha' ye jaain' aboot?"
"Cob Chase an' his lads fetched Shaner a loonerin'. I jist go' him tae th' sawbones. His back an' leigs is verra roch. They wus at him wi' a starter."
He had their full attention, most particularly Bell's, but it was Kit Davenport who spoke first. "You're sure it was Chase?"
" 'Oo'd else et be?" Higgins asked, already on his feet as if he intended to go after the seaman himself. " 'E bain't dun naught but be clittersome t'us'ns fer - "
"I mean," Davenport interrupted, "did Shaner say it was Chase and his mates?"
"It was." The confirmation came from Shaner himself. He was walking unaided, though very carefully, and Lachlan was quick to help him sit on the very edge of a bench at the nearest mess table. "He had a turn with the starter. There were three of them."
"Whee's 'em uvver two?"
There was a deliberate pause before Shaner answered, "Dyer was one. I can't be sure of the third, he never spoke and I didn't see him."
Chase and Dyer. That was more than good enough for Lachlan. "Tha's reet in yer line, laddie," he said to Bell, who was already unbuttoning his off-watch jacket.
"D'thee need - " Frazier began.
"Divvent." With that curt brush-off of Frazier's interrupted offer, Bell went forward. It was no surprise. James Bell had been in a colliery gang before finding that taking the King's shilling was the better part of a deal in which the other option was the noose. He was more than equal to a pair of over-bold seamen.
" 'Ope 'e kills 'im," muttered Higgins.
" 'Ve a mind t'help him," Frazier grunted. He looked as though he wished he had gone with Bell despite the Geordie's refusal of any aid. "Ain't reight no' ta ha' a go m'sen."
Mattie Barrett carefully set aside his mug of water and leaned forward over the mess table, using his elbows to prop himself up. "Et oughter be Davey 'oo 'as a go, 'cuz et were him they giv 'at thumpin' ter."
"You boys had best be careful with your talkin'," Davenport interjected. "Mister Thurlow's got one of the ship's boys spyin' on us an' the Tars. Soon's he gets wind of this..."
That tidbit of information brought them all around sharply. Lachlan scowled. "Fit ye say?"
"Which'n of 'em be et?" Higgins demanded.
"If I told you, you'd all give the lad a beltin'. Or worse," was the reply. "I don't object to lads gettin' a thumpin' when they deserves it, but a boy? No, mates, that'll not be on my conscience."
"Divvil tak' thy conscience," sneered Smith. " 'Tis a' lieklee tha' nipper's peached on thee an' go' thee some stripes afore naow. 'Ow's tha' set wi' thy conscience?"
Davenport bristled. "I don't hold with bullyin', Smith, and that's what Mister Thurlow's been doin'. But I don't hold with abusin' youngsters who're bullied into doin' bad neither. Chase is one thing. I'm not sorry Bell's gonna use his guts for garters. But nippers? No. It's enough for you lot to know how that middie finds out everythin' he does."
"You boys'd do well to button your gobs," Brendan McIntyre said in a no-nonsense voice. "I ain't got a knot on me shoulder anymore but I'll still whip the lot of you, if you don't stop this fool talk right bleedin' now."
That served to silence the heated chatter, but glowers were still exchanged between Davenport and the others. The mood, not having been particularly cheerful to begin with, was now openly hostile. Only the sudden outbreak of raised voices from up forrard broke the tense silence but none of the Marines moved to see what the commotion was about. They already knew. Bell had been caught. The collective, unspoken hope was that he'd been able to make Chase understand that the Marines were not to be trifled with, as only James Bell could.
~
Defaulters parade the following day saw two men up for striped shirts. James Bell, his craggy face indifferent, was one of them. Jacob Chase was the other. The topman was holding himself carefully even before he was seized up and when it was his turn at the grating, the sight of his heavily-bruised back gave Mister Matheson pause.
"Get on with it, Mister Matheson!" Captain Leaford snarled, unaware of the reason for the boatswain's hesitation.
The flogging went on with particular swiftness, Colbert Smith thought. A gesture of kindness on Mister Colburn's part? It was possible. Not that Smith cared all that much. Chase had gotten what he deserved. Now, Bell and Chase had been flogged for fighting. It was nothing to Bell but Smith suspected that the incident had shaken Chase's confidence. He would have believed himself above any retribution, until Bell had appeared like an avenging wraith and bundled him down to the orlop. Only the intervention of the midshipmen had spared Chase from worse than a beating. Still. Smith reckoned that Chase should consider himself lucky to still be alive. Bell was not known for his merciful nature.
As the Marines filtered back into the messdeck after turning in their muskets, Smith noted the presence of midshipmen at both ladders and the senior petty officers scattered obviously around the messdeck. Something was in the wind. A deterrent against further trouble or a sign they were all in for just that?
" 'Ow's ye feelin', Davey?" Lachlan asked of David Shaner, who had been excused from parade.
Shaner eased himself up a little in his hammock and tried on a grin. "Fresh as a daisy, Sammy mate. Where's Bell at? I owe him a tot."
The remark was met with a few scattered chuckles, though the men took care to not be too loud. Smith settled in at his mess table to resume the job of sewing a button back onto his left gaiter. He'd had to borrow Shaner's gaiters for parade. Conversation tapered off as the others likewise got down to work, but it was impossible to shake the feeling of being closely watched. There were two midshipmen near each ladder still and the boatswain's mates were prowling restlessly. Obviously, Smith decided, they were meant as a deterrent to further trouble.
Were it not for the slight stiffening up of postures around him, Smith would not have been aware of the presence of an officer in their part of the messdeck. It was not Captain Collins or one of the sea officers, but only a middie. Mister Midshipman Hamilton, in fact. The tiny freckle-faced boy clutched a small canvas bundle to his chest, staring warily at the Marines as if he expected them all to attack him at once, before his gaze settled on Lachlan.
"Sir," said Lachlan, brushing a curled knuckle past his brow as he rose to greet the young gentleman. The offered obedience made Mister Hamilton's face flush dark and Smith belatedly realised that the lad wore slops, instead of his uniform. What the devil...?
"Er, I... I... am not an officer, S-S-Sam," the lad stammered, looking on the verge of flight. "I am b-before the m-m-mast. So I can l-learn my trade p-p-properly..."
An invisible sigh rolled over the messdeck. Instant sympathy was on almost every face, most particularly Lachlan's. What a terrible thing to do to the nipper! The muscles in Smith's jaw tightened and he looked deliberately aft, where Mister Morse was one of the midshipmen loitering obviously by the ladder. He was not the only to do so and Mister Morse, no doubt aware of the reason for such close study, fidgeted uncomfortably.
"C'mon, lad," Kit Davenport said, shifting aside to make room for the disrated midshipman. "Seems you're in good company now. This here's the place for the damned and the disgraced, 'parently."
Mister Hamilton bit his lip and shivered. "I h-h-hate hem!" He burst out feelingly, and promptly buried his face into Lachlan's shirt, clinging to his countryman as if Lachlan was a life buoy in a gale. Perhaps, Smith thought sadly, he was. He laid his gaiter aside and twisted around to reach into his sea-chest. The detachment was not allowed grog anymore but that didn't mean there weren't hoarded treats stashed here and there.
"Here, nipper." Smith held out the little linen bag that contained the last of his molasses candy. "Haave thee some o' this, 'twill do thee good."
It was Lachlan who accepted the bag, however, but it was close enough. The silence that lay over the messdeck was now distinctly sad more than unhappy. Smith did not know which of those feelings he liked less. He gazed disinterestedly at the half-sewn-on button and sighed. The hope that joining the New York squadron might improve matters aboard was fading fast.
Aft, by the gunroom, Captain Collins watched the scene just long enough to see Lachlan put his arms around the sobbing ex-midshipman. He had not witnessed the actual disrating but he'd heard about it promptly enough from an angry Gabriel Alderbury. The overall mood of the lower deck was turning decidedly ugly but none of the officers had any idea how to stop it worsening. Even Lieutenant Simcoe was noticing signs that things were not as they should be. And that, Collins thought wearily as he withdrew into the gunroom, meant things were very bad indeed.
"Jonathan."
The cold, one-word hail brought him up short, just before he could disappear into his cabin. He knew the voice and he knew the reason he was being hailed. Right then, the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with Alderbury, especially after the roasting they had both gotten from Doctor Finch the day before.
"Lieutenant Alderbury."
"A word, if you please." Alderbury sat at the gunroom table, his worn and faded seagoing coat draped over the chair beside him. A leather-bound book lay open before him but as Collins approached the table, Alderbury pointedly eased the book closed. He did not seem concerned that Doctor Finch and Mister Quinn were present as well.
"May I ask what about?"
"Your men, sir," was the curt response. "In particular Private James Bell. What passed between him and Jacob Chase was not a fight, but rather a deliberate seeking of revenge. I regret what happened to Private Shaner. Given time, I would have addressed the matter. Instead, your men took it upon themselves to arrange a beating of one of my men and sent the most cruelly violent fellow amongst them off to administer it!"
Collins' jaw tightened. He hadn't wanted a confrontation but with one staring him in the face, he was not about to back down. "Need I remind you, sir, that the beating of Private Shaner, at the hands of Jacob Chase and at least one other sailor, is what occasioned Private Bell's involvement. Were that matter promptly addressed, I dare say recriminations would have been prevented."
"I should like to point out that it was, in fact, the inflammatory storytelling of Private Shaner that set all of this in train, a performance which - "
"Which I put a halt to the instant I knew of it," Collins interrupted. "I made him unmistakeably aware of the folly of stirring up the men's fantasies with grand tales, and also in making a mockery of the ship and her officers with songs. The next he makes such an exhibition, sir, I intend to bring him to court-martial. Further, I ordered Private Frazier confined for merely being present in the audience for that storytelling. What more would you have me do, pray, short of keeping them all at work night and day and thereby making them too tired and worn for any service ashore?"
A glass rattled just audibly on the table. "Gentlemen," said Doctor Finch. "If you please."
Unbidden, Mister Quinn placed two tumblers of brandy onto the table, one near Alderbury and the other where Collins could easily reach it. "The men," the acting lieutenant observed in a carefully neutral tone, "may exchange an eye for an eye all they wish, so long as they present no danger to the ship. I confess, however, a particular concern for the wellbeing of one of my former mess. Thomas Hamilton has been turned before the mast and this makes him a vastly easier target for negative attention. I'll speak plainly lest there be any doubt. Midshipman Thurlow is a bully. Mister Morse and I have done what we could to keep him in check, but of course circumtances are different now."
The young man paused to sip lightly from his own tumbler before continuing. Perhaps choosing his words? Given the subject he had turned the conversation to, it would be little wonder. "It's my understanding that Jacob Chase was previously appointed to be Mister Hamilton's sea daddy. Further, Private Lachlan seems to have become, somehow, an ally to Mister Hamilton. Both men, I think, must have some measure of redeeming worth to them, all other incidents and troubles aside, for I can tell you in complete honesty that Thomas Hamilton does not trust lightly. Nor, may I add, does he learn so quickly as when gently taught. May I thus propose that we consider those episodes of recent days as resolved and attempt to do what we can to prevent unpleasanties with those who can't look out for themselves?"
"That, sir, is a capital suggestion." Finch sat casually back in his chair. "I may presume to be bold and point out that with Jacob Chase on light duties for the present time, he is ideally placed to serve as a constant companion for Mister Hamilton?"
What a deft stroke, Collins marvelled. It almost seemed that Finch and Quinn had planned this argument and merely waited for an oppotune moment to make it. He reached for his tumbler of brandy and allowed himself to forget Alderbury's hot words. This was, as Quinn rightly pointed out, of rather more importance in the broader scheme of things. "I see no cause for objection," he said. "And would add that my Marines, Private Lachlan foremost, appear to have been to whom Mister Hamilton went to first after he was disrated."
"Let it be so," Alderbury agreed after a moment's thought. "If it hasn't already been done, I'll see to Mister Hamilton's addition to the watch bill, so he might find himself in my own division. The larbowlins will do for him. He may," the second luff added with just a hint of irony, "thus find himself with the Marines of that watch, doing duty as a waister."
Quinn did not smile, though he was more than entitled to. "I'm obliged, sirs, and so is Mister Hamilton."
In two swallows, Collins drank off his brandy and set the empty tumbler onto the table. He would have to send for Lachlan and lay this new scheme out to him, since it appeared the Scotsman was the nearest Hamilton had to a real friend on the lower deck. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." He waited just long enough for the other three to nod before crossing to the gunroom door, where he instructed Wicklow to pass the word for Lachlan. It was also going to be necessary to speak to McIntyre, Jones, and Devlin about this, wasn't it? Even though he'd broken those three of their ranks. Damn it. Perhaps, Collins thought in weary resignation, he was going to have swallow his pride and admit he'd committed a grievous mistake in that regard. Confessing as much to them was going to be damned hard, when it came to that.
"Private Lachlan, sir," Wicklow called out, and for the time being, Collins put those thoughts aside. Only one problem could be solved at a time. He was learning that the hard way, it seemed.