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barefoot_bardTitle: Sunsets
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 18 August 2010
Summary: StC-verse. The end of war comes sooner than expected for some. Portsmouth, 1811.
Author's Note: Warning: Character death.
If he were a man to believe in dreams, the previous night's subconscious wanderings would have given him warning. Cross Johnson, however, put no stock in anything he could not see or touch. So the dark dreams that plagued his sleep of late were summarily dismissed as so much meaningless fluff; the result of unusually warm weather and long days' duties.
He had risen that morning in his usual temper, which he took as sign enough that all was, asc ever, normal in the world. His Marines, as ever, did their best to avoid prolonged contact with him. This suited him well enough. There was a good deal of danger in becoming too friendly with one's subordinates, after all.
The day passed tolerably enough, punctuated occasionally by overly-bored Marines acting up on the messdeck. None of them went to the grating for it. Of course. Mister Cartwright hated employing the lash. It was a weakness in the officer that Johnson despised. Men needed a firm hand to keep them in line. Coddling them only made them insolent and slack. But he held no fancy commission so he could not argue with the lieutenant. Sadly.
Johnson was on the foc's'le, carrying out the responsibility of checking the sentries when a stern-voiced challenge was shouted below, from the guardboat. A barge was approaching with particular haste, two blue-coated officers in the sternsheets. They answered the guardboat's challenge with a gruff demand to see the ship's captain immediately, on the port admiral's authority. To Johnson's disgust, Mister Midshipman Slater, the officer in command of the guardboat, gave the barge permission to hook on. Little fool. But what else could you expect from midshipmen?
Shaking his head, he carried on to the last of the sentries, then retired below. The quiet of the weather deck gave way to the riotious noise of the messdeck, but despite the clash of voices and laughter, Johnson heard the quick footsteps on the ladder above. A midshipman, being sent to rouse the captain to receive their visitors. He settled in by his sea-chest and thought no more about the barge and its two officers. There was more important work to be done.
That was until Mister Cartwright appeared from topside and called out for a dozen men. Johnson looked up from the chore of blackballing his spare shoes with a frown. A detail ashore, the lieutenant said, and those men would take muskets and full cartouches. The frown on Johnson's face grew more severe and several Marines exchanged glances. What sort of detail required muskets and full cartouches? They were at anchor in Portsmouth, for pity's sake, not Lisbon!
"You heard him," Johnson said after a moment, rising to his feet. Whatever this detail meant, it was a foregone conclusion that he would be part of it. "A dozen men, quick-like!"
The usual volunteers were already gathering up their kit. Satisfied, Mister Cartwright disappeared into the wardroom. His departure left Johnson to direct the twelve volunteers to the arms locker, where he issued out their muskets. There was no time to be lost, or so he guessed. Within ten minutes, the twelve men, with Johnson and Mister Cartwright, were piling into the barge. The two officers who had fetched them waited until the barge was underway before revealing the nature of their detail.
There were seamen, many of them pensioners, threatening riot near the hospital. Their initial grievances had been about poor food and mistreatment, but affairs had spiralled quickly out of control when the Commissioners had refused to hear the complaints. The unhappy sailors should use the proper channels to make their grievances known, they were told. In answer to that, the seamen were vowing riot and violence.
Wonderful, Johnson thought. No wonder Mister Cartwright had not explained the 'detail'. This was not at all what he'd anticipated. Not a man in the barge spoke until they were hooked on at the dock. One of the officers, an older lieutenant, glanced over the blank-faced Marines and seamen and seemed to sigh.
"You men will proceed directly to the hospital guardhouse," he said. "There are several other detachments coming ashore as well. To assist."
"Are we to expect resistance between here and there?" Mister Cartwright asked. A glance toward his officer showed, belatedly, that the lieutenant anticipated trouble. The presence of a pistol thrust through his sash suggested as much. Johnson nodded stiffly to himself, approving of the officer's foresight.
"That would be something to expect, yet," was the reply.
Cartwright pursed his lips. "Very well. Corporal. Two files, if you please."
The little force set off, marching steadily toward the described scene of unrest. Few people were about in the street, and these few jeered at the Marines as they passed. Johnson ignored them, or tried to. Ungrateful sods. Except for that trifling noise, there didn't seem to be much disturbance in this part of the city. That impression changed swiftly as they drew nearer to the hospital. There was indeed a crowd of seamen loitering outside the closed gate. Quite a sizeable one, in fact. Several of the seamen had clubs of various sorts and Johnson thought he saw the glint of a blade once or twice as well.
"Don't look too pleasant, sir," he remarked in an undertone.
Mister Cartwright surveyed the restless group of seamen calmly. "No," he agreed. "Stop the men here, Corporal. I don't wish to provoke them simply by our arrival."
An unhappy grimace crossed Johnson's face, but he nodded. "Marines! Halt!" The little squad halted obediently and stood fast, waiting for further orders. To Johnson's surprise, Mister Cartwright carried on forward, approaching the group of seamen on his own. What the hell was the officer thinking?
"You lads!" Mister Cartwright called out, drawing the group's attention. "What is your purpose here?"
An unhappy grumble rippled through the crowd. A reed-thin seaman stepped forward, a table leg in one hand. "We are here to get redress for the ills that have been done us!"
"So I have heard. Is this the manner in which you intend to seek such redress?"
"If it suits our ends, aye."
Johnson frowned. Such fancy language from a common Tar. It wasn't natural! Mister Cartwright seemed to be of a similar mind. He inclined his head toward the skinny seaman and remarked. "You are a fellow of learning, I believe?"
"So what if I am. That has no bearing upon our present difficulty."
"Perhaps not. I should think any man of learning would be aware that force is scarcely a suitable way to achieve honourable goals, such as I understand yours to be." Cartwright spread his hands to show they were empty. "It would be wisest for you, all of you, to be disperse peaceably."
"Peaceably?" The skinny seaman spat onto the ground. "We have done as much peaceably as we mean to. Now it is time to get what we are due by force of arms."
A cheer of agreement went up from the men behind him. Johnson eased his hand up on the stock of his musket. Instinct told him this was not going to end happily. What the hell was Mister Cartwright thinking he could accomplish by talking nice to this lot?
"I strongly urge you to reconsid - "
"Make way, there!" A stern voice cried. "Stand aside, you laggards!"
Johnson and his men found themselves pushed summarily aside by a newly-arriving contingent of Marines, led by a red-faced captain. It was the captain who had shouted at them. The new group of Marines caused the seamen to draw closer together, brandishing their weapons warningly. Yep, Johnson thought, this was not going to end happily at all.
"Sir, stand your men back," Mister Cartwright called, keeping his hands held away from the weapons he carried. The daft man was still trying to dissolve the gathering quietly. If there had been any chance of that, it was ruined now.
"I think not!" The captain snapped. "Marines! Form line!"
Oh hell. Johnson glanced at his dozen men and set his jaw. "Lads, incline to the left. Sharply!" They had best give Mister Cartwright some sort of protection when the situation exploded, which it was bound to do.
"Stand your men down, sir!"
"That will do, Lieutenant! You men, sailors. You will disperse immediately or by God I shall fire into you!"
Mister Cartwright was in a quandary, right enough. The seamen were scarcely paying him any attention now they were faced with a more serious threat. He would do well to retreat and rejoin his men. Or at least that was Johnson's thought on the matter.
The skinny seaman lifted his hand, suddenly holding a pistol, and levelled the weapon at Mister Cartwright. "You, sir, will stand your men down," the Tar said to the captain. "Or I will shoot this officer."
It took no order from Johnson for his Marines to present their muskets upon this development. Suddenly, everything was dangerously serious. "Best to come back to the line, sir," the corporal called. Unsurprisingly, however, Mister Cartwright made no such move. The damned bloody fool...
"Every man here would be best served to put his weapon aside," the lieutenant said firmly, pointedly looking at the seaman with the pistol. "That is a lawful, sensible order to you, sailor, and an advisement to you, sir."
No one moved and no one spoke. Obviously there was no intention anywhere of giving in. Johnson's finger slipped tighter around the trigger and he counted down slowly from twenty. Once he reached zero, he was going to fire, orders or not. This was lunacy, pure and simple. They had come here to break up an unruly group of seamen and that was what they would do. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.
"Present!" The captain snapped, apparently regaining his sense of purpose. "Upon my command - "
"Disperse, you lads!" Mister Cartwright said loudly.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Johnson sighted carefully down the barrel. Whichever way this turned out, he was positive that Mister Cartwright would find himself reprimanded for being stupid. Who else but a fool would approach an armed mob in the way he had? "Make ready!" He snapped at his men. Five. Four.
The sudden movement from Mister Cartwright took everyone by surprise. In a quick, sure motion, the lieutenant closed with the skinny seaman and knocked the sailor's pistol-arm down. There was a muffled whump as he planted his elbow soundly into the seaman's gut. The abrupt attack, while successful, precipitated an eruption of angry shouts and angry reaction from the other Tars. Mister Cartwright's red jacket was quickly lost to view amidst the motley array of blue, grey, and brown of the seamen's shirts.
"Fire!" The captain howled. A volley of musketry crashed out, knocking several seamen down with screams.
"Terpsichores!" Johnson thundered, thumbing his musket hammer down carefully. "Fix bayonets!"
It was madness to fire with their own officer somewhere in the midst of that panicking, furious mass of sailors. The twelve Marines fixed then charged their bayonets and went forward at a near-run, forcing the seamen back before their gleaming blades. Another, more ragged, volley tore into the now-violent mob. One of the seaman, a sword in hand, leapt toward the offending line of Marines who were hurriedly trying to reload. Others followed hard on his heels.
"Clear them off!" Johnson bulled into a sailor and gave the idiot a hearty kick to get him out of the way. His men were forcing the mob backwards with their bayonets, herding them toward the other line of Marines. Where the hell was... "Sir!" The corporal spotted the familiar red jacket and shoved his way toward it. His haste, however, was for naught, as he found out when he knelt down by the lieutenant. The skinny seaman lay dead close by, a bullet in his cheek and a sword in his hand. Cartwright's own sword. The lieutenant held his pistol tightly, one finger curled around the trigger. Crimson stained the white of his trousers, seeping down from under his jacket.
"Marines!" Johnson roared, coming jerkily to his feet. "Halt. Present! Fire!"
If Cross Johnson had been a man to believe in dreams, he would have taken heed of the warning whispered to him at night, while his mind slumbered. He might have known to suitably warn his officer of the danger. But he put no stock in anything he could not see or touch. And it was now too late to admit he might have been wrong.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 18 August 2010
Summary: StC-verse. The end of war comes sooner than expected for some. Portsmouth, 1811.
Author's Note: Warning: Character death.
If he were a man to believe in dreams, the previous night's subconscious wanderings would have given him warning. Cross Johnson, however, put no stock in anything he could not see or touch. So the dark dreams that plagued his sleep of late were summarily dismissed as so much meaningless fluff; the result of unusually warm weather and long days' duties.
He had risen that morning in his usual temper, which he took as sign enough that all was, asc ever, normal in the world. His Marines, as ever, did their best to avoid prolonged contact with him. This suited him well enough. There was a good deal of danger in becoming too friendly with one's subordinates, after all.
The day passed tolerably enough, punctuated occasionally by overly-bored Marines acting up on the messdeck. None of them went to the grating for it. Of course. Mister Cartwright hated employing the lash. It was a weakness in the officer that Johnson despised. Men needed a firm hand to keep them in line. Coddling them only made them insolent and slack. But he held no fancy commission so he could not argue with the lieutenant. Sadly.
Johnson was on the foc's'le, carrying out the responsibility of checking the sentries when a stern-voiced challenge was shouted below, from the guardboat. A barge was approaching with particular haste, two blue-coated officers in the sternsheets. They answered the guardboat's challenge with a gruff demand to see the ship's captain immediately, on the port admiral's authority. To Johnson's disgust, Mister Midshipman Slater, the officer in command of the guardboat, gave the barge permission to hook on. Little fool. But what else could you expect from midshipmen?
Shaking his head, he carried on to the last of the sentries, then retired below. The quiet of the weather deck gave way to the riotious noise of the messdeck, but despite the clash of voices and laughter, Johnson heard the quick footsteps on the ladder above. A midshipman, being sent to rouse the captain to receive their visitors. He settled in by his sea-chest and thought no more about the barge and its two officers. There was more important work to be done.
That was until Mister Cartwright appeared from topside and called out for a dozen men. Johnson looked up from the chore of blackballing his spare shoes with a frown. A detail ashore, the lieutenant said, and those men would take muskets and full cartouches. The frown on Johnson's face grew more severe and several Marines exchanged glances. What sort of detail required muskets and full cartouches? They were at anchor in Portsmouth, for pity's sake, not Lisbon!
"You heard him," Johnson said after a moment, rising to his feet. Whatever this detail meant, it was a foregone conclusion that he would be part of it. "A dozen men, quick-like!"
The usual volunteers were already gathering up their kit. Satisfied, Mister Cartwright disappeared into the wardroom. His departure left Johnson to direct the twelve volunteers to the arms locker, where he issued out their muskets. There was no time to be lost, or so he guessed. Within ten minutes, the twelve men, with Johnson and Mister Cartwright, were piling into the barge. The two officers who had fetched them waited until the barge was underway before revealing the nature of their detail.
There were seamen, many of them pensioners, threatening riot near the hospital. Their initial grievances had been about poor food and mistreatment, but affairs had spiralled quickly out of control when the Commissioners had refused to hear the complaints. The unhappy sailors should use the proper channels to make their grievances known, they were told. In answer to that, the seamen were vowing riot and violence.
Wonderful, Johnson thought. No wonder Mister Cartwright had not explained the 'detail'. This was not at all what he'd anticipated. Not a man in the barge spoke until they were hooked on at the dock. One of the officers, an older lieutenant, glanced over the blank-faced Marines and seamen and seemed to sigh.
"You men will proceed directly to the hospital guardhouse," he said. "There are several other detachments coming ashore as well. To assist."
"Are we to expect resistance between here and there?" Mister Cartwright asked. A glance toward his officer showed, belatedly, that the lieutenant anticipated trouble. The presence of a pistol thrust through his sash suggested as much. Johnson nodded stiffly to himself, approving of the officer's foresight.
"That would be something to expect, yet," was the reply.
Cartwright pursed his lips. "Very well. Corporal. Two files, if you please."
The little force set off, marching steadily toward the described scene of unrest. Few people were about in the street, and these few jeered at the Marines as they passed. Johnson ignored them, or tried to. Ungrateful sods. Except for that trifling noise, there didn't seem to be much disturbance in this part of the city. That impression changed swiftly as they drew nearer to the hospital. There was indeed a crowd of seamen loitering outside the closed gate. Quite a sizeable one, in fact. Several of the seamen had clubs of various sorts and Johnson thought he saw the glint of a blade once or twice as well.
"Don't look too pleasant, sir," he remarked in an undertone.
Mister Cartwright surveyed the restless group of seamen calmly. "No," he agreed. "Stop the men here, Corporal. I don't wish to provoke them simply by our arrival."
An unhappy grimace crossed Johnson's face, but he nodded. "Marines! Halt!" The little squad halted obediently and stood fast, waiting for further orders. To Johnson's surprise, Mister Cartwright carried on forward, approaching the group of seamen on his own. What the hell was the officer thinking?
"You lads!" Mister Cartwright called out, drawing the group's attention. "What is your purpose here?"
An unhappy grumble rippled through the crowd. A reed-thin seaman stepped forward, a table leg in one hand. "We are here to get redress for the ills that have been done us!"
"So I have heard. Is this the manner in which you intend to seek such redress?"
"If it suits our ends, aye."
Johnson frowned. Such fancy language from a common Tar. It wasn't natural! Mister Cartwright seemed to be of a similar mind. He inclined his head toward the skinny seaman and remarked. "You are a fellow of learning, I believe?"
"So what if I am. That has no bearing upon our present difficulty."
"Perhaps not. I should think any man of learning would be aware that force is scarcely a suitable way to achieve honourable goals, such as I understand yours to be." Cartwright spread his hands to show they were empty. "It would be wisest for you, all of you, to be disperse peaceably."
"Peaceably?" The skinny seaman spat onto the ground. "We have done as much peaceably as we mean to. Now it is time to get what we are due by force of arms."
A cheer of agreement went up from the men behind him. Johnson eased his hand up on the stock of his musket. Instinct told him this was not going to end happily. What the hell was Mister Cartwright thinking he could accomplish by talking nice to this lot?
"I strongly urge you to reconsid - "
"Make way, there!" A stern voice cried. "Stand aside, you laggards!"
Johnson and his men found themselves pushed summarily aside by a newly-arriving contingent of Marines, led by a red-faced captain. It was the captain who had shouted at them. The new group of Marines caused the seamen to draw closer together, brandishing their weapons warningly. Yep, Johnson thought, this was not going to end happily at all.
"Sir, stand your men back," Mister Cartwright called, keeping his hands held away from the weapons he carried. The daft man was still trying to dissolve the gathering quietly. If there had been any chance of that, it was ruined now.
"I think not!" The captain snapped. "Marines! Form line!"
Oh hell. Johnson glanced at his dozen men and set his jaw. "Lads, incline to the left. Sharply!" They had best give Mister Cartwright some sort of protection when the situation exploded, which it was bound to do.
"Stand your men down, sir!"
"That will do, Lieutenant! You men, sailors. You will disperse immediately or by God I shall fire into you!"
Mister Cartwright was in a quandary, right enough. The seamen were scarcely paying him any attention now they were faced with a more serious threat. He would do well to retreat and rejoin his men. Or at least that was Johnson's thought on the matter.
The skinny seaman lifted his hand, suddenly holding a pistol, and levelled the weapon at Mister Cartwright. "You, sir, will stand your men down," the Tar said to the captain. "Or I will shoot this officer."
It took no order from Johnson for his Marines to present their muskets upon this development. Suddenly, everything was dangerously serious. "Best to come back to the line, sir," the corporal called. Unsurprisingly, however, Mister Cartwright made no such move. The damned bloody fool...
"Every man here would be best served to put his weapon aside," the lieutenant said firmly, pointedly looking at the seaman with the pistol. "That is a lawful, sensible order to you, sailor, and an advisement to you, sir."
No one moved and no one spoke. Obviously there was no intention anywhere of giving in. Johnson's finger slipped tighter around the trigger and he counted down slowly from twenty. Once he reached zero, he was going to fire, orders or not. This was lunacy, pure and simple. They had come here to break up an unruly group of seamen and that was what they would do. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.
"Present!" The captain snapped, apparently regaining his sense of purpose. "Upon my command - "
"Disperse, you lads!" Mister Cartwright said loudly.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Johnson sighted carefully down the barrel. Whichever way this turned out, he was positive that Mister Cartwright would find himself reprimanded for being stupid. Who else but a fool would approach an armed mob in the way he had? "Make ready!" He snapped at his men. Five. Four.
The sudden movement from Mister Cartwright took everyone by surprise. In a quick, sure motion, the lieutenant closed with the skinny seaman and knocked the sailor's pistol-arm down. There was a muffled whump as he planted his elbow soundly into the seaman's gut. The abrupt attack, while successful, precipitated an eruption of angry shouts and angry reaction from the other Tars. Mister Cartwright's red jacket was quickly lost to view amidst the motley array of blue, grey, and brown of the seamen's shirts.
"Fire!" The captain howled. A volley of musketry crashed out, knocking several seamen down with screams.
"Terpsichores!" Johnson thundered, thumbing his musket hammer down carefully. "Fix bayonets!"
It was madness to fire with their own officer somewhere in the midst of that panicking, furious mass of sailors. The twelve Marines fixed then charged their bayonets and went forward at a near-run, forcing the seamen back before their gleaming blades. Another, more ragged, volley tore into the now-violent mob. One of the seaman, a sword in hand, leapt toward the offending line of Marines who were hurriedly trying to reload. Others followed hard on his heels.
"Clear them off!" Johnson bulled into a sailor and gave the idiot a hearty kick to get him out of the way. His men were forcing the mob backwards with their bayonets, herding them toward the other line of Marines. Where the hell was... "Sir!" The corporal spotted the familiar red jacket and shoved his way toward it. His haste, however, was for naught, as he found out when he knelt down by the lieutenant. The skinny seaman lay dead close by, a bullet in his cheek and a sword in his hand. Cartwright's own sword. The lieutenant held his pistol tightly, one finger curled around the trigger. Crimson stained the white of his trousers, seeping down from under his jacket.
"Marines!" Johnson roared, coming jerkily to his feet. "Halt. Present! Fire!"
If Cross Johnson had been a man to believe in dreams, he would have taken heed of the warning whispered to him at night, while his mind slumbered. He might have known to suitably warn his officer of the danger. But he put no stock in anything he could not see or touch. And it was now too late to admit he might have been wrong.