Dogwatches - Chapter 3

[barefoot_bard]

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

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



"All hands aft to witness punishment!"

Men streamed up from below, seamen and Marines alike, as the boatswain and his mates finished bellowing the summons down the hatchways. Everyone aboard had known there would be another flogging that afternoon. It was the seventh in only three days. A seaman was to receive two dozen for allegedly swearing at a petty officer. It would not have been a grievance except that the sailor to be flogged was a topman and one of the more popular hands. Even many of the Marines were friendly with Donahue. That made the situation that much harder to bear all around.

The ship's officers were already lining the quarterdeck rail, with the Marines paraded neatly behind them. The grating had already been rigged and next to it was a small folding table, upon which rested a red baize bag. Inside it was the cat. Its nine strands with hardened leather knots on each end could turn a man's back to shreds in only a few blows. It was never a pleasant spectacle. Donahue was brought up and made to stand two paces from the grating. From where he was standing as Donahue's guard, George Wicklow would have a rare and particularly unpleasant view of what was about to happen.

Captain Leaford eyed the unfortunate topman with a neutral expression, but Wicklow got the feeling that he considered Donahue to be nothing more than a smear of dirt on his shoe. It was not a comfortable sort of feeling. There was a tense stillness amongst the gathered ship's company as Leaford read the relevant Article of War, reciting it from the well-worn booklet that listed them all. His voice was a bland drone, the same as it had been when he had read himself in that first day of his command. When he was finished, however, he looked down at Donahue and seemed to draw himself up.

"Seize him up," the captain said. Matheson and Colburn led Donahue forward and tied his wrists to the grating. Wicklow stood back an extra pace so he would not be in the way. Why couldn't it have been Bell or Quintin who drew this duty?

"For the crime thus listed, two dozen lashes will be given. Carry on, Mister Matheson!"

Wicklow did his best not to scowl. The captain was enjoying this, the bastard. He wanted to say something to Donahue, but he was too far away to risk it. It was easy to tune out Matheson's orders to Rutland and Colburn, but it was less easy to tune out that awful sound of leather on flesh. There was a pause as Rutland gave the cat a brisk shake to loosen its strands, then Leaford, seemingly impatient, called, "Lay it on!"

The air seemed to draw tight with tension when the boatswain's mate swung his arm to apply the first stroke. Despite his effort to ignore it, Wicklow winced at the splattering crack of the cat's strands on Donahue's back. One of the Shepherds - he could not tell which one it was - rapped his drumstick down onto his drum to mark the count of one, even as Rutland was drawing his arm back to deliver the second stroke.

It went on and on, but Donahue made no sound as his back was turned into a mess of open and bloody furrows. Wicklow felt tiny flecks of blood splatter against his face and neck every time the cat was drawn back and was hard-pressed to resist the urge to wipe the scarlet droplets away. The only respite came after the first dozen lashes had been given and Colburn took over the cat from Rutland. Within a minute, the flogging continued and Wicklow's feeling of nausea deepened.

"Twenty-four!" Mister Simcoe announced. "Sentence has been delivered, sir."

Leaford stared down at the lean, bloodied seaman bound to the grating and seemed almost regretful. "Cut him down," he said at last. Matheson and Rutland moved forward to free Donahue from the grating, while Colburn took the cat to the rail and gave it an unceremonious heave over board. It was over. Thank God. Maybe now they could all get on with the endless drills the captain had ordered. Exercising the guns every morning, then the boats in the afternoon, with musket and cutlass drill in-between. And of course at least one flogging just before midday.

Wicklow unfixed his bayonet and slipped it safely back into its scabbard. Next time, he vowed, he would pay one of the others to take this duty in his place should he draw it again. He would much prefer to be spared the trial of a Defaulters parade at all, which was too much to wish for. Even the exhausting drain of intensive drilling about the ship was preferable to this rubbish. Could they go below yet? His throat felt rough and dry, which could easily be cured by a dipper of water from the scuttlebutt. Of course, knowing their luck, the Marines would be called up again to be put through the Manual Exercise within ten minutes.

But Captain Leaford was not yet finished. "Disgrace, lads. I have already told you that I do not hold with it, yet it seems the lesson has yet to be fully appreciated. Warrant and petty officers are hereby empowered to employ their starters at the slightest sign of slack, lagging, or disrespect. I will not tolerate disgrace to this ship, lads. By God you will learn that!"

Wicklow felt disgust bubbling up. The ship had been a happy one until this bastard had taken command. Since leaving Antigua, there had been no fewer than six floggings, all for various relatively minor infractions. Four on their second day at sea and two the day before. Now this. Were they all to be seized up at some point before reaching South Carolina? He suppressed a shiver and found himself wishing that Captain Somersby was back. This voyage would be endlessly more tolerable with their former captain aboard.

"Dismiss!" Matheson was yelling and the seamen went drifting back belowdecks. Barely containing his anger, Wicklow hefted his musket and quickly retreated below. He missed the happy, carefree mood that had once dominated the frigate. It wasn't natural to have to be careful who you talked to, for fear of being overheard at the wrong moment. He thought of the unlucky Donahue and sighed. It wasn't natural at all.

The Marines were settling down to resume the work of cleaning their muskets when Wicklow returned below. There was a feeling of resentment in the air, but only a veteran of their messdeck would know how to recognise it. Donahue was popular and his being flogged didn't sit well with many of them. Wicklow was not the only one to consider the punishment to be unjust, either. Several Marines were quietly discussing it as they got down to work. Their conversations, however, quickly petered out when George Durham appeared, newly returned from a sneaking visit to the sick-berth.

"Sawbones says Donahue'll be up an' 'bout agin tomorrer," Durham reported, all but throwing himself down near his sea-chest. "An' that's the good news. Ain't rate what they just done, lads. Ain't rate."

"An' what t'do about it?" Thomas Mayden asked.

Durham scowled at him before lowering his gaze to glare down at the lock of his musket as he began to pull it apart. "Ain't gooin' be nowt done 'bout it now, Yank. Bit late for that. But I tell ya, Donahue been done wrong. I was on sentry at the bell when Mister Hennock came on deck. He was askin' Hue sommat 'bout his last ship, 'cause Mister Hennock's son or cousin or sommat like was in her too. Then Hue got to tellin' a story 'bout that lad, an' he was tellin' it like it prolly went, too, 'til Mister Hennock realised the bos'un was watchin' an' told Hue to get back to workin'. Hue says 'aye, aye,' an' does it."

Across the deck, Higgins frowned. "So oo 'eared 'im, then? Ain't like tha'n t'go roun' cussin' at officers."

"Who d'ya think it was?" Durham retorted.

That brought frowns onto nearly every face. There were only a few people aboard who openly supported the captain. Prominent amongst them was one of the midshipmen. Mayden curled his lip. "So it's - "

"Aye," Durham interrupted, his tone dripping with disdain. "Can bet on it. Mister Hennock's speakin' up for poor Hue dunner mean a thing, neither. Not when that snivellin' rat's got an uncle who's a senior cap'n."

"So much bollocks," Willie Harrison sneered. "But that's officers for you!"

"It'll be the grating for you if you don't find something useful to do with yourself!" A new voice piped. Harrison and the others looked toward the aft ladder and saw the midshipman who was the object of their derision glaring at them. "Highly improper to be gossiping like old hens!"

The half-Spanish Marine, Davenport, met Mister Thurlow's gaze evenly, seemingly unperturbed by the boy's attempt at insult. "Oh aye, sir, that's the truth. Gossipin' is for grannies, it is, sir. This here's just story-swappin', sir. About past ships and the like. We don't mean anything by it, sir. Helps pass the time, y'see."

"You're a liar," the midshipman snarled. "And far too bold. Cheeking an officer, are you? That could mean - "

"That could mean, Mister Thurlow, that the men are telling you they understand your point and are expressing such in their own way," Captain Collins broke in, his voice deadly calm. "I believe you have other duties, sir?"

The midshipman quivered with repressed anger but nodded. "Aye sir."

"Then be about them. It would not do to be caught slacking!"

They watched the boy scamper topside, the Marines with barely-restrained mirth, Collins with wary resignation. He had heard the entire exchange and was glad he had intervened, but the occurrence of such a thing in the first place did not bode well. Some of the Marines were beginning to mutter amongst themselves until they realised that he was still present and swiftly fell silent again. They were good lads, for the most part, and yet he wished they would learn when not to be excessively cheeky.

"Try not to be so carelessly flippant, lads," Collins told them. "There are more listening ears than just Mister Thurlow's around."

The Marines watched him disappear into the gunroom, holding their silence until they were sure he was out of earshot. Then somebody chuckled and Tom Mayden said, "Course there is, word goes 'round ship faster than a t'penny whore!"

Durham was shaking his head. "He's rate, though. Gotta be careful what we says, even on our own messdeck! I ain't gooin' back to the gratin' just 'cause some lad was chunterin' 'bout an officer."

That sobered them right up. In relative silence, they bent their heads to work at cleaning their muskets and thought about their captain's warning. It was certainly something to consider.

~

"Deck there!" The masthead lookout cried, his voice impossibly loud despite the distance between the mainmast crosstrees and the quarterdeck. "Sail, fine off the larboard bow!"

Every face turned upwards at the hail and Lieutenant Carver, the officer of the watch shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. The lookout's news was not welcome to him, for it meant he had to make decisions. They were only five days out of English Harbour and already the third luff was wishing to be back there. There was a silence and most eyes shifted, discreetly, toward Carver. They waited for him to react even though they all knew what he would do.

"Mister Hamilton!" The impossibly meek lieutenant called. "Take a glass and go aloft. Quickly now!"

The unfortunate midshipman quivered, threw a quick salute, and scampered up the shrouds like a terrified monkey. In his haste to carry out the order, he had forgotten to take a telescope. Donovan, the master's mate of the watch, quietly took a telescope from the rack, handed it to a nearby seaman, and just as quietly bade him to take it up to Hamilton. The seaman was halfway up the shrouds before Carver even knew what was happening and by then, he could say nothing about it without appearing perfectly foolish.

Thomas Mayden, one of the Marine sentries for the quarterdeck stairs, hid a sneer. Like many of the crew, he thought Lieutenant Carver was soft and despised him for it. But unlike many of the crew, Mayden was well-placed to listen freely to the conversations of the sacred quarterdeck. His mate Wiles, the other sentry, tilted his head just slightly to the left and from the corner of his eye, Mayden saw him quirk a grin. Both of them would be listening.

Unsurprisingly, it was the lookout's voice they heard calling out the report instead of Hamilton's. The Scottish midshipman had yet to develop the lungs to bellow orders. "Deck there! Two tops'ls on her, she's hull up!" A pause. "She's bearin' away, settin' out royals an' t'g'llants, she is!"

"Pass the word for the captain!"

Mayden's lip twitched but he squashed the sneer before it could become an actual expression. It figured, he thought. Carver didn't have the stuffing to give the necessary orders. Not on his own. Nobody was surprised. The quartermaster at the helm shuffled his feet slightly and Mayden tensed up, catching the sound of shoes on the aft ladder half a second after Mister Evans had. The captain was coming on deck.

"Report of a sail, Mister Carver?" Leaford asked pleasantly. "Where away?"

Carver pointed. "Off the larboard bow, sir. Masthead reports seeing two masts, sir."

The captain calmly picked up a glass from the rack and looked at the distant ship. Mayden unconsciously held his breath and waited. It was well past time that somebody let Carver have it for being such a worthless sod, but Leaford seemed to accept the lieutenant's hesitation and did not comment on it. Instead, he said, "Hands aloft to make sail, Mister Carver. We won't let that fellow get away."

That, Mayden thought sourly, was just the sort of hand-holding Carver required. Shame the frigate's third lieutenant had to be such a sad excuse for an officer. "Hands to make sail! Tops'ls and royals!" Carver called. Pipes shrilled and seamen swarmed aloft. "Adjust course two points to larboard, Mister Evans." The helm creaked as Evans eased it over. With a sigh, Prewett the sailing master shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his stained and faded coat and stared up at the sails. It was all routine again, until they drew up to the other ship close enough to see who she was.

There was not likely to be any further conversation so Mayden let his mind drift. He was an unusual Marine, an oddity amongst his fellows. Unlike the rest of the detachment, Mayden was a colonial, born in Boston and raised by devoted Loyalists. His father had been a corporal in Halkett's Forty-Fourth and it was from him that Mayden inherited his own deep Loyalist views.

When the troubles between native Bostonians and the King's soldiers began to grow particularly heated, Mayden sought out the Marines' billets and requested permission to enlist. The startled Marine sergeant sent for an officer, to whom Mayden repeated his request, and shortly afterward, he found himself swearing that he was of sound mind and body and was willing to serve his King without reserve. His mates often teased him about that, for it was indeed unusual for anyone to go about asking to be recruited.

It wasn't easy being a colonial, even if he was in his King's service. Many men, officers in particular, regarded him with undisguised suspicion and no doubt hated the idea of having a colonial under their command. Mayden understood their feeling and resented it at the same time. He was as loyal as the lad next to him and had fought and bled alongside them more times than he could count. But of course it wasn't enough. It never was.

"Deck there!" The masthead lookout thundered. "She's a Yankee, by the cut of her sails!"

A shiver went through him and he pretended not to notice the measuring glance cast his way by Mister Prewett. Suspicious men were too easily turned into enemies. Especially suspicious, prejudiced men like Prewett. The only one aboard who was worse was the ship's captain.

"Mister Matheson, get those men moving! Legless pensioners can move faster!"

Mayden sighed quietly. It wasn't possible to be worse than the captain. The boatswain bawled out a terse acknowledgement and obligingly brandished his starter, but there was no need at all for the knotted rope's end to be used. The seamen moved with their usual brisk ease, as confidently quick as any good crew should be. Threatening to start them because the captain thought they were being slow would only cause them to hurry and become sloppy. But then, that would probably suit Leaford just fine. He'd already proven he would take any excuse to flog a man.

The boatswain and his mates were trilling on their calls again and there was more shouting as a reef was taken in on the topsails. Mayden tilted his head back as much as he dared, which was not much considering that he'd just seen Sergeant Devlin appear up forrard, and watched the nimble-footed Tars at their work. It was a damned shame that they should have such a brute for a captain, really. Though of course not every captain could be like Somersby, the previous captain. Now there had been a real sea officer. Mayden found his gaze trailing back down to the weather deck. He wouldn't be a Tar under Captain Leaford for all the money in the world.

Up forrard, James Bell reached out a red-sleeved arm and struck the bell. Mayden tapped one finger against the well-polished wood of his musket stock in time to the paired rings. Four bells. God but this watch was dragging by. The frigate was fairly flying along though. One of the midshipmen was tossing the log over the taffrail while another turned a small sand-glass. The cry of "Ten knots, sir!" from behind them drew a low whistle from Evans, the duty quartermaster.

Ten knots was a respectable speed for a frigate. If the wind stayed in their favour, they would overhaul the other ship by mid-afternoon. Maybe. Mayden looked up slightly at the bellied canvas and thought perhaps there would be a nice little fight before nightfall. He hoped there would be. Another call for adjustment of sail was made and once again the seamen went swarming up the shrouds. Mayden shifted his grip on his musket, adjusted his stance, and daydreamed about paying back those rebel bastards who'd sacked his father's smithy.

A cough from Evans brought him sharply back to reality, in time to straighten up from his more comfortable quarter-slouch as shod feet scraped toward him. The watch was over already? Where had the time gone? Mayden fixed his gaze on one of the ropes on the boat tier and waited. It was Corporal Jones in charge of the guard this oncoming watch. The Welshman led the file of the relief to the quarterdeck stairs sentries first, each of whom crisply saluted and declared that all was well. A Marine from the file was detailed to take over each man's post and in turn, Frazier and Wiles fell in at the back of the file. Then the procession moved along toward Mayden.

"All's well, Corporal," he said, saluting. Jones nodded once and told him to fall in. As he stepped out around the line of Marines to take his place behind Wiles, Mayden couldn't resist a curious look out toward the other ship. She was much closer now, despite her almost desperate efforts to run. Yes indeed there was going to be a fight before nightfall. The Boston-born Marine flashed a quick grin at the man who'd taken over his post and followed the file below, for the placing of sentries was over. All that remained was the turning-in of their muskets to the arms locker and that was a short enough chore.

"There'll be a prize had tonight, lads," Mayden predicted as he peeled out of his coat. "Could do with a little extra coin, that's sure!"

Colbert Smith smirked. "Thee jes' wants paddin' for thy nex' dice-game!"

"Well there is that. Mebbe some prize money'll be just the sorta luck I need."

"Ye needs more'n luck, laddie," Lachlan called out. The other Marines chuckled. Mayden was notoriously poor at dice-throwing but he hated to admit to it. He was persistent in attempting to turn his long-running streak of losses around and his mates were just as persistent in making it longer, and lightening his purse in the bargain.

Mayden grinned. "Just you watch, Lachlan. We'll take that rebel bastard and I'll start winnin'. Just you watch!" He mimed shaking dice in his hand. "Only takes one good toss to win, after all."

Lachlan simply shook his head. They would indeed take the other ship for a prize but Mayden would never win a game of dice. It only took one good toss of the dice to win, as he said, though it depended on who was doing the tossing.

"Speakin' of dice," Isaac Watkins said, rattling a battered pair of wooden dice in his palm, "who's up for a game?"

Several men moved automatically toward him, abandoning whatever they had been doing in favour of a little prohibited gambling. As long as they did not get caught by one of the ship's warrant officers, they didn't care who knew what they were about. There was nothing better to do anyway, until quarters was beaten and the ship was cleared for action. Unsurprisingly, Mayden was amongst them. The boy would never learn, Lachlan thought as he turned back to finish sewing up a tear in his old breeches. But then again, Mayden was a colonial and everyone knew that colonials had no sense at all.

~

If It was not for the fact that his brother now owed him two full watches, Andrew Shepherd would still be happily sleeping belowdecks. The twins were known to swap duties as it pleased them but they had yet to be caught at it. It was exceptionally helpful in situations like the present, where it was now Andrew, rather than Thomas, standing as duty drummer before an engagement. Andrew liked being the one to beat the ship to quarters, even though it meant he had to stay at his post when the fighting started. If the fighting started. Still, he thought cheerfully, he was the one on deck with the drum and that was one of the few responsibilities he liked.

Another side-benefit of being duty drummer was the chance to listen in on the conversations between the quartermaster and the master's mate of the watch. Andrew made it a point to know which men aboard were amenable to a good joke or prank, even amongst the seamen, and he was pleased to know that two of those men were on watch with him. The same couldn't quite be said for the two Marines on sentry at both quarterdeck stairs, but it was easy to ignore them.

"Deck there!" The masthead lookout cried. "Colours is up on 'er. They's French!"

French? Andrew wrinkled his nose. It was common knowledge that the French capering around helping out the rebels, but Cornwall had never directly encountered Frog warships. Merchant vessels were another matter but they were of no interest set against a frigate or ship of the line. The shares of prize money increased when it was a warship. All the more reason to hope for a fight!

Captain Leaford reappeared on deck. "French colours, Mister Alderbury?"

"Aye sir," came the reply. "We're closing on her steadily. If the wind holds, we'll be on her in an hour."

An hour. Andrew rocked back and forth on his heels and tried not to grin eagerly. So it would be a fight! No other outcome was possible in his mind, not when the officers were so confident they would catch their quarry. But of course they were going to catch their quarry, it was a Frog, after all. Never mind that the previous watch's lookout had reported the other ship to be a Yankee. The truth of her would be discovered when she was boarded.

"We shall go to quarters, Mister Alderbury. Hands aloft to shake out the reef from the main t'g'llant. I want this done smartly."

Alderbury touched his hat and hurried to the rail to shout out the orders. "Hands aloft, shake out the reef in the main t'g'llant! Beat to quarters and clear for action!"

Beat to quarters. It was the command Andrew had been waiting for. He didn't bother smothering a delighted grin as he drew his drumsticks from his crossbelt. With only a moment's pause, the carved sticks were pattering against the tightly-stretched drumhead. The familiar roll-tap-roll rhythm brought the off-watch seamen boiling up from below, hurrying to their assigned stations.

Belowdecks, the Marines would be retrieving their muskets from the arms locker. Sailors would be hurrying to strike the screens in the great cabin. The gunner and his mates would be opening the magazines and preparing cartridges. The carpenter and his crew would be laying out the necessary items to repair any damage that might be done to the ship's timbers. Topmen were busy aloft rigging chains in the yards and protective netting above the deck. Everywhere was a bustle. But here, near the quarterdeck stairs, Andrew stood isolated. He took an inordinate amount of satisfaction that he was the one responsible for beginning that rush of activity. He gave one last roll on the drum before clicking his sticks together with unhidden glee. It was going to be a fight and he'd be able to see all of it unfold, even though he couldn't take part himself.

"Load but don't run out," Captain Leaford was calling. "Double shot with ball, Mister Hennock!"

The gunner, looking strange in his battered felt slippers, saluted and went back to checking the flints on each gun one last time. He checked the guns at least twice a week but always made a point to perform an inspection before action. Every gun would fire and fire well. That was a certainty. Andrew watched the hurried, orderly preparations for combat and wished he could play something quick-paced and cheerful on his drum.

There was nothing to do but fidget and watch the crew at their action stations, all through the following hour. It was not easy remaining still at all, and he hardly tried. The sea officers were pacing the quarterdeck above him, the boatswain was pacing the weather deck in front of him, and the seamen of the quarterdeck battery were crouching at their guns. All conversation was related to the other vessel. For the officers, concerns were of the enemy's likely strength and willingness to fight. For the seamen, all thoughts were of the prize money they would receive for taking the ship.

"Sticks!"

Surprised to hear his name called, Andrew looked up from his bored study of the pins holding his drumhead tight. It was Fingers, one of the ship's boys. He was peering up from the very edge of the companionway, noticeable only because of his wild dark hair and his wide brown eyes. "What's doin'?" Andrew hissed back, very slowly edging toward the boy.

Fingers sounded excited. "Gotta wager runnin' wi' the lads, d'ya wan' in?"

There was a wager being made and Fingers was thick enough to need to ask if he wanted in? Andrew flashed the boy a quick grin. "Course I want in. Wot's the game this time? First lad t'get up onta the poop?"

"Firs' ta git hands on they colours," Fingers told him. "Whaddaya layin' down?"

"Tuppence." He didn't have the money himself, but it would be easy enough to borrow it from his brother, without Thomas knowing, until whenever he could pay it back. "Puttin' it on Higgins."

Fingers repeated that to himself, so he could better remember it. Then he bobbed his head and disappeared below again. An all right lad, was Fingers. If only he tried a little harder to keep clean. Andrew looked up to idly scan the deck and discovered with a start that Burns, one of the boatswain's mates, was watching him.

He instantly felt cold. Gambling was strictly forbidden aboard ship and for boys, was punishable by at least a dozen strokes with the boys' cane. After a long moment, however, Burns winked at him and gave the barest nod, which was an immediate relief. There was all right fellow, Andrew decided happily.

"Shepherd!" Again he was being hailed, but this time it was Sergeant Devlin. "Get below and get your sword. Quick-like now!"

Perfect. Andrew replied with a terse "Aye Sarn't!" and unclipped his drum before scampering below. His sword was stowed above his hammock and he retrieved it quickly. Then, on the way topside again, he paused on the gundeck to grin at one of the Marines assigned to a gun crew. "Pity yer below here, Frazier! Be some right hot action up top in just a bit!"

Nick Frazier smirked at him. "There'll be some reight hot action down here firs', Sticks. Jist reight fur us lads what knaaws how t'fight!"

The barb, meant playfully, brought a blushing grin to Andrew's face and the drummer disappeared topside again. Around the gun, the seamen laughed. Frazier lounged against the gun carriage as much as he dared and said, "Almos' envy the lad, gettin' to stand up there an' see wha's gooin' oan."

Ben Nicholls, one of the other tacklemen, shook his head. "What's to know? We's runnin' down some damn fool Frog an' gonna show 'im the light."

"Dowt it," Frazier returned. "Mosta that lot woan't knaaw sense if it wur to box they ears."

"Reckon we'll be doin' a fair bit of boxin' ears then," Joe Kipp, the gun captain, said cheerfully. He patted the gun's breech affectionately. "Polly here's got a real strong swing on her, she does!"

The gun crew chuckled. Polly, as Kipp had named the formidable twenty-four pounder, was one of the best-kept guns aboard. Her crew was also the fastest one, achieving a round three shots in two minutes at the last timed gun drill. Frazier shook his head. "Give i' a bit, we'll let Polly loose t'box e'ery ear she can lay hand oan!"

"Silence on deck there!" Midshipman Morse barked. The men crouching or kneeling around Polly exchanged smug, knowing grins. Soon enough there would be no hope for silence on the gundeck. They couldn't have much longer to wait anyway. The powder monkeys pattered around to their assigned guns, carrying up final charges from the magazine. One of them, the scrawny, tousled-haired Fingers, grinned toothily at Polly's crew and set down his powder bucket near Kipp's feet.

"Sticks is in onna wager," the boy reported in a hushed voice. "Tuppence on 'Iggins."

Frazier looked aghast. "Higgins? Christ, the lad's gunna looze a tuppence soon's Jem Bell gets aburd. Higgins is a mad'n in a feight, sure 'nuff, but he's nowt oan Bell!"

The sponger, Jemmy Two-foot, snorted a short laugh. "Neither of 'em is gonna make it. It'll be Scotchy MacFarlane gets there first!"

"Silence there!" Mister Morse snapped again. His command was unnecessary for there wsa a sharp boom from topside, one of the bowchasers firing. All conversations ceased instantly. The bowchasers firing meant warning shots, and it would not be long until the rest of the ship's guns were freed to fire as well.

Polly's crew crouched around their gun with deadly earnest, the tacklemen ready to haul the heavy gun up to the gunport. Joe Kipp checked the lock one last time and tested the tension in the trigger line, then knelt well behind the gun and waited. There was no time for conversation or discussion now.

One of the younger midshipmen scurrying down from the weather deck surprised the men nearest the ladder, but the boy's news was most welcome. "Larboard battery, stand by for the command to fire!" Mister Hamilton piped in his squeaking voice. "One full broadside, then run out agin an' stand by!"

"Run out!" Mister Morse was shouting. "Run 'em out, smartly now!"

The deck was filled with noise as the heavy guns lumbered over the thickly-sanded decks, amid the shouts of gun captains making last-minute adjustments to elevation. A wild grin on his face, Frazier spat on his hands and rubbed them together eagerly. His task was simple. When the gun was fired and reloaded, he helped run it back out again. In the mean time, he was able to watch the fight through the gunport. Or what he could see of the fight, anyway.

Young Mister Hamilton was back, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Fire!"

A great crashing roar broke over the deck as the gun captains jerked at the trigger lines almost in perfect unison. Frazier coughed as great clouds of smoke choked the gundeck, his grip on the tackle line loose but ready. The commands from Kipp the gun captain were pure background noise. They knew what to do and they were sharp about it.

Two-foot heaved his sponge rod back out of the barrel and Caleb Phillips, the loader, put a powder charge, wadding, and then a round shot down the barrel. Kipp carefully inserted a goose quill into the vent and pricked a hole into the cartridge, then just as carefully poured some powder into the vent from the horn at his side. He gave the flint in the lock a quick testing swipe with a calloused thumb and clicked the lock back to full cock.

"Run out!" Kipp barked and the tacklemen threw themselves against the tackle lines, using brute strength to haul the Polly's weight up to the gunport. "Hold!"

Now it was a waiting game again. Frazier tried to peer out the gunport, but his view was blocked by Nicholls' head. Bloody Tar, he thought. With no hope of seeing for himself was happening, he asked, "Wot're they doain' out there?"

"We chopped up their riggin' right nice," Nicholls replied, inching around to get a better view. "But their colours is still run up. Looks like... down boys!"

The gun crews, hearing his warning cry over the light wisps of chatter, threw themselves down around their guns, in time to hear the thunderous crash of solid iron against the ship's side. There were screams from topside as enemy round shot scythed across the waist and foc's'le. One lucky ball stove in the side of a gunport up forrard and nearly overturned the Number Four gun. All along the deck, the crews were shouting amid the disbelieving cries of the wounded, creating a cacophony of noise that Frazier thought might drill a hole straight through his skull.

Kipp was back on his feet, the trigger line in hand. "Stan' back!" He roared and jerked his arm sharply. Polly spat out the twenty-four pound ball with a roar of exploding powder and the heavy carriage sprang back to the full length of her tackles. Other guns were firing as well, their crews equally angered by the enemy's boldness. It was beyond crediting that a mere sloop should think it was in any way wise to take on a frigate, and Cornwall's gun crews were only too willing to show the enemy captain how foolish he was.

"Cease fire!" Mister Hamilton squeaked, once again appearing from topside. "Cease fire there! Boardin' parties, to the weather deck!"

One last gun boomed, even as men swarmed topside to collect their weapons from the small-arms tubs. Once on deck, it was possible to see the results of their broadsides. The enemy sloop's rigging was in tatters, negating the danger of her attempting to run. Her deck bristled with armed men, however, signalling her captain's desire to fight on. Of course, with no hope of escaping, there were only two options left to him. Fight or meekly surrender.

That made the enemy captain a rare bold one, Higgins thought as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the stock of his musket. Whatever was motivating that captain to stand and fight didn't matter, though. All that mattered was getting close enough for Cornwall's boarders to grapple her and leap across to bring the fight to close quarters.

The crippled sloop was drifting closer, the damage to her yards and rigging seeming worse the nearer she got. Musket balls whined and snapped through the smoke-hazy air, occasionally finding targets amid the crowds at the rails of both vessels. Higgins crouched behind the nettings and eased his musket up over the top of the tightly-packed hammocks. It was almost too hazy to see, but he didn't really need to.

The two ships were close enough now that careful aiming was unnecessary. He squeezed the trigger and immediately pulled his musket back to reload it. It was impossible to tell if he'd hit anything but chances were good that he had. How could he have missed, with such a close pack of men on the enemy's starboard rail?

"Marines will fix bayonets!" The order came from Captain Collins, who was striding calmly back and forth behind the gathered crowd of eager boarders. Metal scraped on leather as Higgins drew his bayonet and fitted it onto the muzzle of his musket. This was going to be good. He could feel it. His officer passed close behind him, his sword drawn but resting lightly against his shoulder. "Steady now, lads. Steady!"

This was not so much an order as a warning. Higgins could only grin. They could be as steady as the captain liked right then but that would change in an instant once they went aboard the sloop. It would be nothing but killing work then. Killing work and a race to the sloop's colours. Higgins glanced toward James Bell, who was his rival in that latter venture. They'd shortly see who was the better at clearing a path through the enemy!

"Grapplin' hooks!" Matheson the boatswain thundered, swinging one of the three-pronged hooks himself. Musket balls thwapped into the hammock nettings and ricocheted off the deck, even as the men let fly with their grappling hooks. A man next to Higgins spun away from the nettings, both hands jerking up to his face, but another seaman appeared instantly to take his place. Almost close enough now... Higgins gripped his musket tightly and stepped boldly up onto the nettings.

The danger he put himself in by becoming such a prime target never registered. The Cornwalls had flung their grappling hooks with admirable aim and the two ships were now drifting slowly closer to each other. Another ragged volley of musketry sent balls whizzing past, knocking down another man who was trying to follow Higgins' example. Then, with a grinding crunch, the two hulls came together.

Higgins was leaping over the rail even before the general order to board was shouted. He was determined to be the first man to touch the enemy sloop's colours. His motivation was helped more by the prospect of a good bit of fighting rather than the bounty that was due to the winner of Fingers' contest. Other Cornwalls were streaming over the rail after him, howling war cries and laying about almost carelessly with their weapons.

A Yankee sailor - for rebels indeed they were - came charging at him with a raised cutlass. Higgins kicked out with one foot, tripping the sailor, and drove his musket butt down against the back of the man's head. That was one fool down and plenty more to go. Howling a wordless challenge, Higgins levelled his bayonet-tipped musket and barrelled into the thick of the enemy crew. They were standing between him and his goal, which meant he had to clear a path through them.

"Higgins!" Another Marine was carving his way through the press of rebel sailors, using his fists and a long-bladed knife instead of his musket. It would have to be Bell. The Newcastleman was far more accustomed to this sort of combat than Higgins, but where Bell was the definition of a true gutter-fighter, Higgins was simply all wild courage.

"Gotta be faster'n that, Jem mesun!" Higgins thundered, sweeping the butt of his musket up to knock a Yankee sailor head over heels and over the side. He was on the steps to the sloop's poop deck, where the concentration of enemy was the thickest. His bayonet flashed dully as he stabbed and slashed at the snarling faces blocking his path, but his progress was maddeningly slow. At least Bell could not be doing much better, even as ruthless as he was. Higgins kicked a man off his bayonet and smashed another in the jaw with the musket's brass-capped butt. He was going to be the first to reach those colours and haul them down, even if it killed him!

A pistol cracked close by, wielded by a Cornwall seaman following close behind him. The shot distracted him for the barest moment and Higgins let out a surprised whoof as a man's fist glanced heavily off his ribs. That man received a musket butt to the ear for his foolishness. Then Higgins became aware that the shouts of anger were giving away to lusty cheers. What? He lowered his bloody musket warily and looked around. There were Marines and seamen cheering all around the sloop and after a moment, he saw why. A seaman had the sloop's colours wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak and was dancing a hornpipe as if he was skylarking on the foc's'le.

"Divvent tha' beat a'," Bell grumbled, elbowing his way toward Higgins. The Somersetman grimaced.

"Dunno 'ow 'ee got there 'fore us'ns," he replied.

"Bloody disgrace," Mayden agreed, appearing behind the two. The three Marines watched the seaman capering around with the captured flag and shook their heads with disgust. Where had that Tar been while they had been doing half the fighting?

Higgins swiped some blood off his face and scowled. "C'mon then. Might's well get these useless Yanks stuffed int' the 'old, lak. Figgers it'll be us'ns doin' alla wark!"

"Hey there," Mayden protested. "We ain't all useless. This lot ain't nothin' but traitors. Better off dead, the pack of 'em."

An enemy sailor glared balefully at him, recognising, apparently, Mayden's accent. "You're a King's toady, ain't you? 'Tis you who's the traitor!"

"A risin' in a King's colony's plain treason," Mayden shot back, scowling. "You an' your mates are damned vile dogs."

"Haad yer gob, Mayden," Bell snapped.

The Bostonian glared at Bell, but a tinny-sounding bellow from Cornwall stopped all conversations. It was Simcoe, the first luff. No doubt acting on Captain Leaford's orders.

"Stop your damned dawdling there! Secure those prisoners! Mister Rutland, take that man's name!"

Higgins grinned fiercely and gave the mouthy rebel sailor a shove that sent him stumbling. " 'Ee 'eared the first luff. Get a-movin', 'ee worthless Yankee swine!"

Other Cornwalls were herding groups of resentful prisoners toward the hatches, while MacFarlane, the seaman who had beaten everyone to the enemy's colours, scampered back across to deliver his prize to Cornwall's quarterdeck. Bell watched him offer a flourishing salute to the stern-faced Captain Leaford, then he shook his head and knelt to use a dead rebel's shirt to clean off the blade of his knife. There was plenty enough to do without watching a damned Tar flaunt a piece of glory that should have gone to the Marines.

~

Locking their prisoners up in the hold was no mean feat, for many of them were still inclined to resist, but that suited the vengeful Marines just fine. They applied shoes and musket butts to the reluctant prisoners without restraint, actions to which the supervising petty officers turned a blind eye. The order to recall boarders was given after Sergeant Devlin reported that the prisoners were secure.

Some supplies were sent over, the prize crew was assigned, and the sombre proceeding of a funeral was held for the three men killed during the short fight. Then Cornwall got underway again, taking the captured sloop - strangely named Felicity - along with her for some way until the sloop's rigging was repaired enough to permit her to depart for the nearest friendly British port.

With the prize taken and the brief combat therefore over, the Marines milled about restlessly on their messdeck. It was never easy to settle their nerves after a boarding action. Tempers were still short and several shoving matches broke out at various intervals before Sergeant Devlin and his corporals were able to settle them down.

Higgins and Bell were still highly annoyed that MacFarlane had claimed the singular honour of capturing the enemy's colours and passed the remainder of the day sulking near their separate hammocks. Not even Jenkins' cheerful relation of how he'd saved one of the quartermaster's mates from a pike-wielding rebel could arouse them from their determinedly sour moods.

In the gunroom, the mood was considerably different. A bottle of fine French wine had appeared from a hidden stash and glasses were being drunk with unusual good cheer. Even Lieutenant Simcoe seemed almost kindly disposed after a couple glasses. The talk ran, as might be expected, toward the price that the captured sloop was likely to fetch when she was delivered to the prize court.

Hardy listened with detached interest to the chatter, which was only slightly muffled by the screen of his captain's tiny cabin. His routine rarely changed. Not when there was always work to be done. Especially not when his captain felt it absolutely necessary to join his Marines in boarding the sloop and, inevitably, got his coat and smallclothes dirty. It would take days to set the coat alone to rights.

There was a burst of laughter from the officers around the gunroom table and Hardy shook his head. Trust officers to overlook reality at the drop of a hat, simply because they had won a battle. As if a fight between a frigate and a sloop could be anything but a victory for the frigate. The Londoner scrubbed at a patch of grease on the coat's sleeve and wondered if there would ever be a time when Captain Collins didn't think it so important to reinforce the notion that he would not ask his men to do anything he would not do himself, when his Marines, by now, knew that very bloody well.

"A glass, Hardy?"

Speak of the devil. Hardy looked up from his work and easily saw the flush in his captain's cheeks. Daft man. "No thank you, sir," he replied, well aware of the sin he would commit by accepting the offer. It was one thing to take a glass during a formal dinner, when such things were more socially permissible. To accept a glass during an officers' celebration, however... he was better off refusing and risking half-drunken censure that would be forgotten by the morning.

Collins shrugged unsteadily. "Suit yourself." He was gone again. There was another burst of laughter, somewhat thick-sounding this time, and Hardy guessed that one of the sea officers' servants would soon be busy manhandling his officer safely to his cabin. Collins himself would need to be gently but firmly guided to his own cot before too much longer.

With a sigh, Hardy studied the progress he'd made on his officer's coat and felt a tiny bubble of despair. Sometimes he wished Collins would stay on the quarterdeck and away from anything that could stain his coat. But wishing for that was not far off from wishing for cows to be blue. Besides, he thought wearily, they were barely a week from South Carolina. There was going to be even more work to do maintaining Collins' uniforms after they finished their business in that colony.

Sometimes, he wondered why he clung to this role. Then he thought of some other lad trying to take care of the Marine captain in his place and he shuddered. No other lad could do the job half as well as he. Besides, Hardy added silently as he got up quietly to cross over to Collins' tiny desk, there were definite perks to knowing your officer's space far better than he did himself.

The steward prised the cork out of the flagon of brandy and sniffed the contents appraisingly. Yes, he thought with a grin, there were perks to it all right. Better to enjoy them now, before they were sent ashore for God only knew how long. Hardy tipped the flagon up and drained it in a single long swallow. Only a week to go and they'd get to do some proper soldiering. All he could think about was how awful Collins' coat would look by the end of it.

There was a crashing thump from out in the gunroom, and an accompanying clash of laughter. Hardy shook his head. Private Marines, at least, knew how to hold their wine. Most officers didn't have a clue. He replaced the now-empty flagon and returned to his corner. They couldn't get to shore too soon, if this was any indication. Once they were off the ship, they would be free of Captain Leaford's tight-fisted control. And that, more than anything else, was something to look forward to.