Punch Drunk
Mar. 14th, 2012 05:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Punch Drunk
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Punchy Wright belongs tosharpiefan.
Story summary: StC/Dogwatches crossover. A Dockyard worker stirs up trouble with Marines on guard duty. Chatham, 1776.
Author’s Note: This is a bit of backstory, or more accurately a brief exploration of a background character. Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
To be on duty in the Dockyard, they were frequently told, required a certain measure of diplomacy, a particular delicacy, even, as the various Dockyard workers tended to be an easily excitable lot. Rough handling of them by the Marines was firmly discouraged. It would not do at all, Captain Ingram constantly reminded them, to abuse those men who made the building and maintenance of His Majesty’s ships possible. Any Marine in the company who did could be assured of swift and harsh punishment.
The restraint that Captain Ingram desired was unrealistic, in Frederick Devlin’s estimation, but Ingram was a relic, older even than the Colonel Commandant and with far less sense. Certainly he was past his prime. Good Lord, the man had first been commissioned before the Corps was actually formed! Having such a fellow for an officer commanding was a constant trial. How Lieutenant Pendry could continually tolerate it was quite beyond Devlin’s understanding.
Still, the sergeant mused, the true power in the company lay with him and Sergeant Crawford. As steady as Lieutenant Pendry was, he didn’t really have a good grasp on the varied personalities of the men, and the correct manner in which to manage them. That was something best left to sergeants anyway. Devlin tucked his rattan cane under his arm and suppressed a smile. At least that was something Lieutenant Pendry understood. The same could not, of course, be said of Captain Ingram, but most of the lads knew his nature well enough to appease the grey-haired officer when necessary.
“Wake up there, Burton,” Devlin chided, having satisfied himself that the sentry he was standing behind was not, in fact, completely awake. The youngster shivered, once, and straightened his back, blinking several times and trying to look alert. Too late, of course.
“Sarn’t!” Burton exclaimed, his thin cheeks flushing.
Devlin tapped the unfortunate fellow on the shoulder with the end of his cane. “Sleepin’ on sentry’s a shootin’ sin, boyo,” he said. “Be glad it’s me an’ not Sarn’t Crawford catchin’ you at it!”
Sensibly, Burton offered no reply, but stood stiffly outside his box, his knuckles starting to go white where he gripped his musket. Time to move on. Devlin nodded slightly and stepped off, his cane again tucked under his arm. Next time he came around, he was confident that Burton would be suitably awake and alert. The fear of Sergeant Crawford amongst the company was a powerful tool and Devlin was not at all shy about employing it. Wisely, that was. As with anything, the threat of unleashing Crawford and his formidable fists on the men had to be used judiciously or the effect would be lost.
The next sentry post to check was ahead and around the corner, fixed at a side gate through which the regular workers came and went each day. Two sentries had been detailed there for their own safety, more than the safety of the gate and the immediate grounds. It was no secret the Dockyard’s workers tended to be a rough lot. Lately Devlin had noticed in the daily orders that allowance was being made for these sentries to fix their bayonets before going on duty. In light of recent scuffles outside that gate, this was only good sense.
In retrospect, he would consider it inevitable that there’d be further trouble at that gate, but that afternoon the likelihood of trouble was the last thing on his mind. His thoughts were centred more on completing his rounds and returning to the guardhouse to make his report. Sergeant Crawford was due to come on duty with the relief in two bells, which was another thing Devlin looked forward to. After being relieved, he was going to pay a call at his favourite tavern.
“Keep back, there!” Came a harsh bellow from ahead, bringing Devlin sharply out of his thoughts. “Back, damn you!”
He went forward at a run, his rattan cane back in hand. It would not be enough if the trouble was what he feared, but for a ready weapon, it would have to do. He came around the corner of the building whose purpose he’d never given much thought to and was obliged to swallow a curse. There was a man, Devlin realised, advancing on the two sentries with a hammer in a large hand. The two sentries had wisely withdrawn through the gate itself, though they now stood with their muskets held before them at the Port, their bayonets glinting in the pale afternoon sun. This was not as wise a move. Why hadn’t they levelled their bayonets to keep the man back?
Without hesitation he bawled, “Marines! Charge, bayonets!”
The sentries responded immediately, swinging their muskets down to waist-level, presenting the long, sharp bayonets fixed to the firelocks’ muzzles. Being confronted by such an obstacle caused the hammer-wielding brute to pause and glare at the Marines, something very like hate twisting his expression. “Flamin’ lobsters,” the brute snarled and spat a wad of something dark and nasty at the shorter sentry, even as he reached out with his free hand with the clear intention of grabbing at the nearest musket.
This was provocation enough for Devlin, who advanced past the sentries and delivered a short, sharp blow to the brute’s ear with his cane. It was one thing to hurl insults and threats at the Marine sentries. It was entirely another to actually make an attempt to harm them. Especially for this oversized jack’s arse.
“Get back, you filthy swine,” Devlin snarled, swinging his cane again before the brute could bring that hammer into play. “Clear off there!”
Despite his two blows, the big man lifted his hammer enough to snap it forward at the sergeant’s arm. It was not an especially powerful strike but it was more than enough to send jolts of pain through Devlin’s elbow and make that limb temporarily useless. His rattan cane would be no further use, clearly, but he swung it again anyway, aiming for the big man’s face. If he was lucky, he could hurt the bastard enough to force him to retreat.
To his dismay, however, the man took the slash without apparent care and swatted half-blindly at Devlin with his hammer. This time the sergeant took the blow on his shoulder and felt something pop in the joint. Damn. He was the one obliged to retreat, now having only one arm to employ. “Three paces forward, march!”
“Bloody bastards!” The man howled, swatting at the two bayonets with his hammer. The clang of metal against metal was far from a pleasant noise. “This ain’t yer b’ness, who’re you to protect them worthless little parasites there? Move aside, you interferin’ nocky boys!”
Devlin had by now shoved his cane through his sash and drawn his sword, which he now held at the hammer-waving fool’s neck. “I’ve had more’n enough outta you, Punchy Wright,” he snarled. “By rights I oughta fillet you here’n now, for assaultin’ one of His Majesty’s Marines! Clear off or I’ll have you shot!”
If Wright persisted in his attempts to force his way past the sentries, Devlin would have no problems ordering the two Marines to prime and load. To hell with Captain Ingram’s orders against abusing the Dockyard workers! In this instance, Devlin would be more than happy to bear the brunt of the captain’s temper and whatever punishment that was to come. Just as long as Wright was successfully seen off. Dead or alive, thought Devlin, since it didn’t matter much to him.
“Piss on you an’ His Majesty,” was Wright’s response and he grabbed suddenly for the blade of Devlin’s sword. Clearly the oversized fool was drunk, as when nearer to sober, he wasn’t anything like this stupid. That hammer was coming up fast, Devlin realised, and he stepped quickly to the side, not about to let his wounded shoulder take any more damage, but at the same time resolutely keeping a grip on his sword. Letting go of that would surely end in disaster.
“Drop him, lads!”
This order was hardly necessary, for the shorter sentry was already driving forward with his brass capped musket butt. A strong blow from that was far more effective than the slashes from Devlin’s cane and Wright all but crumbled, releasing both his hammer and Devlin’s sword to wrap both arms around his midriff. Finally.
“Now,” Devlin said, frowning at the thin smears of blood on his sword, “what in the eternal hell was this all about, puff guts?”
“He were chasin’ a coupla young’ns, Sarn’t,” one of the sentries answered, since no coherent response was offered from Wright. The big man was down on both knees, happily reduced to meaningless oaths. “Dunno for why, but it din’t seem any sorta important. We stopped him short - or tried.”
Hmph. This wasn’t the first time that Punchy Wright had run afoul of the Dockyard sentries, but it was the first instance in Devlin’s memory that there had been a cause beyond Wright’s regular drunkenness. “Where’s the scamps at now, Hanlen?”
The young Marine shrugged. “Scarpered, seems, Sarn’t. One of ’em looked like Jem Baker, though.”
Not that they could be blamed for wanting to get well away from this dunghill, thought Devlin with a sigh. He’d never know which unfortunate nippers had sparked off Wright’s temper, or why, but it didn’t much matter. What mattered was seeing to it that Wright was properly dealt with for his offence. The burning agony in Devlin’s shoulder demanded accounting for, which was very much within his power, even if he couldn’t do anything for the boys Wright had been after.
“Get him up,” Devlin directed, swiping the flat of his sword against the back of Wright’s coat. It was Wright’s blood, after all. He could have it back. Then, not yet at ease enough to sheath the blade, he stepped back to let the two sentries drag the heavy man to his feet. One of them had fetched up the hammer as well, which Devlin noted with approval.
“To the guardhouse with him.”
Leaving this gate unguarded was not the smartest move, but with things nominally calm now, Devlin was not inclined to bawl for the guard. He could send these two back to their posts quickly enough once Wright was turned over to the Captain of the Guard.
To his relief, he spotted his mate Crawford outside the guardhouse, which meant he could restore these two Marines to their posts more quickly than he’d anticipated. “Crawford! Two lads for a prisoner!”
The other sergeant reacted immediately, sticking his head into the guardhouse and rousing out a pair of privates, who approached at a brisk pace. In short order, the two sentries were released to return to their posts. Wright, who was now beginning to recover his sense of awareness, tried to pull away from the Marines holding his arms, until Sergeant Crawford put a stop to that by giving the labourer’s ears a solid boxing.
“ ’Bout time I got to do that,” Crawford remarked cheerfully, as Wright was dragged off to the guardhouse. “Reckon it was ye gave him that crease ’cross his face?”
Devlin tried to lift his left arm but quickly abandoned the effort. “Aye. Stupid fool’s drunker’n a lord. Had a hammer on him, an’ used it. Might be needin’ the sawbones, so I might, damn that bugger. Mebbe he’ll get sorted out proper now, though.”
Maybe, but it wasn’t likely. Captain Ingram would no doubt turn Wright free after the brute had had time to sober up, and without any consequence for clouting Devlin with that hammer. All in the name of avoiding trouble with the Dockyard Commissioner, no doubt. They were not supposed to abuse the Dockyard’s workers after all.
“Aye, well, it ain’t our b’ness. G’arn to the sawbones then. Leave it to ye, findin’ a way to get relieved off duty early!”
With a wry grin, Devlin endured the hearty clap to the shoulder that Crawford gave him - the ex-pugilist would have to pick his wounded shoulder - and turned away to head for the sickbay. Or the infirmary, as it was called when ashore. Hopefully the sawbones wouldn’t put him on light duties for very long, if at all. He was going to need to be careful for a while after this. Once Wright got turned loose, he’d be looking for a little of his own back. The stupid bugger.
At least the story of Wright’s inability to get past them would get around. Perhaps next time there was any sort of trouble amongst the Dockyard’s workers, they would be a little less willing to challenge the Marines’ authority. Unless of course they were Punchy Wright.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Punchy Wright belongs to
sharpiefan.Story summary: StC/Dogwatches crossover. A Dockyard worker stirs up trouble with Marines on guard duty. Chatham, 1776.
Author’s Note: This is a bit of backstory, or more accurately a brief exploration of a background character. Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
To be on duty in the Dockyard, they were frequently told, required a certain measure of diplomacy, a particular delicacy, even, as the various Dockyard workers tended to be an easily excitable lot. Rough handling of them by the Marines was firmly discouraged. It would not do at all, Captain Ingram constantly reminded them, to abuse those men who made the building and maintenance of His Majesty’s ships possible. Any Marine in the company who did could be assured of swift and harsh punishment.
The restraint that Captain Ingram desired was unrealistic, in Frederick Devlin’s estimation, but Ingram was a relic, older even than the Colonel Commandant and with far less sense. Certainly he was past his prime. Good Lord, the man had first been commissioned before the Corps was actually formed! Having such a fellow for an officer commanding was a constant trial. How Lieutenant Pendry could continually tolerate it was quite beyond Devlin’s understanding.
Still, the sergeant mused, the true power in the company lay with him and Sergeant Crawford. As steady as Lieutenant Pendry was, he didn’t really have a good grasp on the varied personalities of the men, and the correct manner in which to manage them. That was something best left to sergeants anyway. Devlin tucked his rattan cane under his arm and suppressed a smile. At least that was something Lieutenant Pendry understood. The same could not, of course, be said of Captain Ingram, but most of the lads knew his nature well enough to appease the grey-haired officer when necessary.
“Wake up there, Burton,” Devlin chided, having satisfied himself that the sentry he was standing behind was not, in fact, completely awake. The youngster shivered, once, and straightened his back, blinking several times and trying to look alert. Too late, of course.
“Sarn’t!” Burton exclaimed, his thin cheeks flushing.
Devlin tapped the unfortunate fellow on the shoulder with the end of his cane. “Sleepin’ on sentry’s a shootin’ sin, boyo,” he said. “Be glad it’s me an’ not Sarn’t Crawford catchin’ you at it!”
Sensibly, Burton offered no reply, but stood stiffly outside his box, his knuckles starting to go white where he gripped his musket. Time to move on. Devlin nodded slightly and stepped off, his cane again tucked under his arm. Next time he came around, he was confident that Burton would be suitably awake and alert. The fear of Sergeant Crawford amongst the company was a powerful tool and Devlin was not at all shy about employing it. Wisely, that was. As with anything, the threat of unleashing Crawford and his formidable fists on the men had to be used judiciously or the effect would be lost.
The next sentry post to check was ahead and around the corner, fixed at a side gate through which the regular workers came and went each day. Two sentries had been detailed there for their own safety, more than the safety of the gate and the immediate grounds. It was no secret the Dockyard’s workers tended to be a rough lot. Lately Devlin had noticed in the daily orders that allowance was being made for these sentries to fix their bayonets before going on duty. In light of recent scuffles outside that gate, this was only good sense.
In retrospect, he would consider it inevitable that there’d be further trouble at that gate, but that afternoon the likelihood of trouble was the last thing on his mind. His thoughts were centred more on completing his rounds and returning to the guardhouse to make his report. Sergeant Crawford was due to come on duty with the relief in two bells, which was another thing Devlin looked forward to. After being relieved, he was going to pay a call at his favourite tavern.
“Keep back, there!” Came a harsh bellow from ahead, bringing Devlin sharply out of his thoughts. “Back, damn you!”
He went forward at a run, his rattan cane back in hand. It would not be enough if the trouble was what he feared, but for a ready weapon, it would have to do. He came around the corner of the building whose purpose he’d never given much thought to and was obliged to swallow a curse. There was a man, Devlin realised, advancing on the two sentries with a hammer in a large hand. The two sentries had wisely withdrawn through the gate itself, though they now stood with their muskets held before them at the Port, their bayonets glinting in the pale afternoon sun. This was not as wise a move. Why hadn’t they levelled their bayonets to keep the man back?
Without hesitation he bawled, “Marines! Charge, bayonets!”
The sentries responded immediately, swinging their muskets down to waist-level, presenting the long, sharp bayonets fixed to the firelocks’ muzzles. Being confronted by such an obstacle caused the hammer-wielding brute to pause and glare at the Marines, something very like hate twisting his expression. “Flamin’ lobsters,” the brute snarled and spat a wad of something dark and nasty at the shorter sentry, even as he reached out with his free hand with the clear intention of grabbing at the nearest musket.
This was provocation enough for Devlin, who advanced past the sentries and delivered a short, sharp blow to the brute’s ear with his cane. It was one thing to hurl insults and threats at the Marine sentries. It was entirely another to actually make an attempt to harm them. Especially for this oversized jack’s arse.
“Get back, you filthy swine,” Devlin snarled, swinging his cane again before the brute could bring that hammer into play. “Clear off there!”
Despite his two blows, the big man lifted his hammer enough to snap it forward at the sergeant’s arm. It was not an especially powerful strike but it was more than enough to send jolts of pain through Devlin’s elbow and make that limb temporarily useless. His rattan cane would be no further use, clearly, but he swung it again anyway, aiming for the big man’s face. If he was lucky, he could hurt the bastard enough to force him to retreat.
To his dismay, however, the man took the slash without apparent care and swatted half-blindly at Devlin with his hammer. This time the sergeant took the blow on his shoulder and felt something pop in the joint. Damn. He was the one obliged to retreat, now having only one arm to employ. “Three paces forward, march!”
“Bloody bastards!” The man howled, swatting at the two bayonets with his hammer. The clang of metal against metal was far from a pleasant noise. “This ain’t yer b’ness, who’re you to protect them worthless little parasites there? Move aside, you interferin’ nocky boys!”
Devlin had by now shoved his cane through his sash and drawn his sword, which he now held at the hammer-waving fool’s neck. “I’ve had more’n enough outta you, Punchy Wright,” he snarled. “By rights I oughta fillet you here’n now, for assaultin’ one of His Majesty’s Marines! Clear off or I’ll have you shot!”
If Wright persisted in his attempts to force his way past the sentries, Devlin would have no problems ordering the two Marines to prime and load. To hell with Captain Ingram’s orders against abusing the Dockyard workers! In this instance, Devlin would be more than happy to bear the brunt of the captain’s temper and whatever punishment that was to come. Just as long as Wright was successfully seen off. Dead or alive, thought Devlin, since it didn’t matter much to him.
“Piss on you an’ His Majesty,” was Wright’s response and he grabbed suddenly for the blade of Devlin’s sword. Clearly the oversized fool was drunk, as when nearer to sober, he wasn’t anything like this stupid. That hammer was coming up fast, Devlin realised, and he stepped quickly to the side, not about to let his wounded shoulder take any more damage, but at the same time resolutely keeping a grip on his sword. Letting go of that would surely end in disaster.
“Drop him, lads!”
This order was hardly necessary, for the shorter sentry was already driving forward with his brass capped musket butt. A strong blow from that was far more effective than the slashes from Devlin’s cane and Wright all but crumbled, releasing both his hammer and Devlin’s sword to wrap both arms around his midriff. Finally.
“Now,” Devlin said, frowning at the thin smears of blood on his sword, “what in the eternal hell was this all about, puff guts?”
“He were chasin’ a coupla young’ns, Sarn’t,” one of the sentries answered, since no coherent response was offered from Wright. The big man was down on both knees, happily reduced to meaningless oaths. “Dunno for why, but it din’t seem any sorta important. We stopped him short - or tried.”
Hmph. This wasn’t the first time that Punchy Wright had run afoul of the Dockyard sentries, but it was the first instance in Devlin’s memory that there had been a cause beyond Wright’s regular drunkenness. “Where’s the scamps at now, Hanlen?”
The young Marine shrugged. “Scarpered, seems, Sarn’t. One of ’em looked like Jem Baker, though.”
Not that they could be blamed for wanting to get well away from this dunghill, thought Devlin with a sigh. He’d never know which unfortunate nippers had sparked off Wright’s temper, or why, but it didn’t much matter. What mattered was seeing to it that Wright was properly dealt with for his offence. The burning agony in Devlin’s shoulder demanded accounting for, which was very much within his power, even if he couldn’t do anything for the boys Wright had been after.
“Get him up,” Devlin directed, swiping the flat of his sword against the back of Wright’s coat. It was Wright’s blood, after all. He could have it back. Then, not yet at ease enough to sheath the blade, he stepped back to let the two sentries drag the heavy man to his feet. One of them had fetched up the hammer as well, which Devlin noted with approval.
“To the guardhouse with him.”
Leaving this gate unguarded was not the smartest move, but with things nominally calm now, Devlin was not inclined to bawl for the guard. He could send these two back to their posts quickly enough once Wright was turned over to the Captain of the Guard.
To his relief, he spotted his mate Crawford outside the guardhouse, which meant he could restore these two Marines to their posts more quickly than he’d anticipated. “Crawford! Two lads for a prisoner!”
The other sergeant reacted immediately, sticking his head into the guardhouse and rousing out a pair of privates, who approached at a brisk pace. In short order, the two sentries were released to return to their posts. Wright, who was now beginning to recover his sense of awareness, tried to pull away from the Marines holding his arms, until Sergeant Crawford put a stop to that by giving the labourer’s ears a solid boxing.
“ ’Bout time I got to do that,” Crawford remarked cheerfully, as Wright was dragged off to the guardhouse. “Reckon it was ye gave him that crease ’cross his face?”
Devlin tried to lift his left arm but quickly abandoned the effort. “Aye. Stupid fool’s drunker’n a lord. Had a hammer on him, an’ used it. Might be needin’ the sawbones, so I might, damn that bugger. Mebbe he’ll get sorted out proper now, though.”
Maybe, but it wasn’t likely. Captain Ingram would no doubt turn Wright free after the brute had had time to sober up, and without any consequence for clouting Devlin with that hammer. All in the name of avoiding trouble with the Dockyard Commissioner, no doubt. They were not supposed to abuse the Dockyard’s workers after all.
“Aye, well, it ain’t our b’ness. G’arn to the sawbones then. Leave it to ye, findin’ a way to get relieved off duty early!”
With a wry grin, Devlin endured the hearty clap to the shoulder that Crawford gave him - the ex-pugilist would have to pick his wounded shoulder - and turned away to head for the sickbay. Or the infirmary, as it was called when ashore. Hopefully the sawbones wouldn’t put him on light duties for very long, if at all. He was going to need to be careful for a while after this. Once Wright got turned loose, he’d be looking for a little of his own back. The stupid bugger.
At least the story of Wright’s inability to get past them would get around. Perhaps next time there was any sort of trouble amongst the Dockyard’s workers, they would be a little less willing to challenge the Marines’ authority. Unless of course they were Punchy Wright.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-14 10:26 pm (UTC)(A small typo, though: he reached out with his free hand with the clear intention of grabbing at one the nearest musket.)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-14 10:32 pm (UTC)(I do wonder though what's behind Punchy Wright's grudge against kids!)