Dogwatches - Chapter 4

[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 | Three



The meaty slap of the cat slashing across bare flesh echoed loudly in the stillness hanging over the weather deck. The steady rap of a drumstick and the boatswain's gruff bark calling out each stroke were the only other sounds. Henry Patterson gripped his musket and wished he could close his eyes against the spectacle unfolding before him. This was more pointless than the flogging of Buckley and Day had been. Or Donahue, even. There wasn't a man aboard who could believe the order when it had been passed.

It was the morning after taking the sloop Felicity and the good cheer pervading the messdeck as the men went about their various routines had been quickly shattered when Mister Alderbury had come below with the Master-at-Arms in tow. The second luff's face had been expressionless as he'd read off the names of eleven men to be confined in irons, to be seized up at six bells of that watch. There was a second or two of stunned silence before the men Mister Alderbury named made their way aft.

Patterson had been re-blacking his shoes at the time and noted, as the bewildered procession filed past, that it was mostly gun captains who'd been singled out. Two of the quartergunners were amongst them as well. What they done to merit floggings? The crew had just taken a valuable prize. What was there to condemn in that? Hushed speculation broke out at once, as soon as Mister Alderbury had gone from sight up the ladder. None of the Marines, at least, had any idea what was going on. The seamen clearly didn't either. Cob Chase himself had come aft to ask about it.

Now, Patterson thought despairingly, they all knew. Captain Leaford had given one of his speeches before the punishments began. He roundly denounced the indiscipline shown by the gun captains for firing after orders to give only one broadside, and for the quartergunners for not stopping it, despite the rebel sloop having fired back. Indiscipline undermined the effectiveness of a crew and spawned disgrace and so on. Patterson had stopped listening fairly quickly. The only disgrace on the ship as far as he could see was the captain. There was no call for punishing men who had acted in defence of their ship.

"Twelve!" Lieutenant Simcoe intoned, as Mister Burns, the third boatswain's mate, stepped back with the cat dangling from his hand. "Sentence is delivered, sir."

At least it was the last one. Patterson wasn't sure he could stomach any more. Eleven men flogged for no reason at all. It defied crediting. That was thirteen seamen on the sick list now. Between them and the men who'd gone with the prize crew, it was hard to fathom how the watches could be adequately manned. It wasn't a matter Patterson, as a lowly Marine, would ordinarily be concerned with, but right then, he could think of little else. The shorthandedness amongst the sailors would probably be made up for by the Marines, he guessed, and squashed a grimace. That was not a pleasant thought.

"Cut him down," Leaford snapped. "Dismiss. Clean up that mess."

Now that, Patterson thought with an internal sneer, was the true face of the man. He twisted the bayonet off his musket and slid it back into its scabbard as the shriek of boatswain's calls rent the air. Back to work for those who were able. Unrig the grating, swab up the blood on the deck, and carry on as if it had never happened. Feeling disgusted, Patterson turned away, following Davenport toward the ladder to make his way below to the arms locker to turn his musket. What had they ever done to deserve getting a tartar for a captain?

"Major Collins." Leaford's voice rose above the barks of the boatswain and his mates. "My cabin, if you please."

Despite himself, Patterson glanced back toward the quarterdeck. Captain Collins was just descending the quarterdeck stairs. Leaford had already gone. What the devil was this about, then? Nate Tarwick grumbled at him to keep moving and Patterson went forward again. Every time Collins had been called the great cabin, bad things had come about. This time was unlikely to be any different, though Patterson discovered he was hopeful for it to be just that. Hanlen would tell them later, either way. Or he'd pass the word along through one of the ship's boys if it was urgent. Patterson clattered down the ladder, his thoughts turning to the unlucky beggars who'd just been flogged.

He couldn't know it, but his mate Hanlen was thinking similar thoughts. Even though the crew had been piped on deck to witness punishment, Hanlen had remained at his post outside the great cabin. Strictly speaking, it was disobedience of an order, but he reckoned he'd rather get pulled up for that instead of obeying the order and leaving the captain's living and working space unguarded. If he did that, knowing his luck, something would happen in his absence, and he'd be for it in a nasty way. Better to stay put, he reasoned.

It was just as well he had. Captain Leaford came stamping down the ladder within moments of the crew being dismissed. He ignored Hanlen completely as he brushed past. The Marine was perfectly happy for that though. Close behind Leaford came Captain Collins, which made Hanlen instantly curious. There was the barest shadow of wariness in his captain's eyes as he halted half a step away.

"Hanlen," he greeted.

"Sir." Odd, Hanlen thought as he rapped two knuckles against the cabin door. It was unusual for the captain to acknowledge the great cabin sentry when he was summoned aft. Was something amiss? "Major Collins, sir."

"Yes yes, send him in."

Hanlen pushed the door open, then stepped back to his place. He thought he should say something, but no words came to him. Not that he should speak at all, beyond announcing visitors. He held his silence as Captain Collins crossed into the cabin and, to Hanlen's surprise, shut the door himself.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Collins asked, tucking his hat into the crook of his right arm.

Leaford stood by the stern gallery, gazing out the heavy glazed windows at Cornwall's frothing wake. "In light of the number of men now on the sick list, I am obliged to change the watch bills for the time being. Many of the men in the foc's'le and afterguard will be assuming duties as topmen. This will leave the deck short of hands. I will therefore need the use of some Marines to take their places. I believe eight or nine will suit."

Was he hearing this correctly? Collins blinked. He must be, but that didn't mean he believed his ears. Marines to do the work of seamen? It was something they undertook in times of immediate need, but not as replacements for sailors themselves. "I'm not sure I understand, sir," he said carefully.

"What is there to misunderstand?" Leaford turned away from the stern gallery to face him. His face was neutral enough, but that didn't soothe Collins' prickling unease. "I require the services of some Marines in order to continue working this ship properly. It is unimportant which are given. As I said, eight or nine will suit. I expect them to turn up with the larboard watch at eight bells." He paused, his brow furrowing just slightly. "This is not a problem, Major?"

"With respect, sir, I believe it is. Mounting a full guard about the ship requires eight men. You are asking me to sacrifice - "

The captain lifted a hand to interrupt. "No. You are mistaking me, Major. I am not asking anything. I am giving you an order. Eight Marines, to stand watch with the larbowlins. It is, I believe, courtesy enough to permit you to choose the men for this without interference. Pray do not try my patience, or I shall select them myself, and see to it they are not exempt from coddling simply because they are Marines. Am I making myself clear?"

God damn this man. Collins willed his fists to uncurl and said curtly, "Crystal, sir."

"Good. Be about it, then. Remember, the watches change at eight bells. I shall expect those eight men to be part of the relieving watch at that time." Leaford turned away again. His meaning was plain. This meeting was over.

It was all Collins could do not to slam the cabin door on his way out.

~

"This is bollocks," Gwynn Vaughan muttered from his place in the file of Marines waiting to turn his musket in. The watch had changed and the various sentries relieved, and by now every man aboard knew about the change in the watch bill. Eight of the lads were now topside, dressed in their off-watch uniforms and working like common sailors. There wasn't a Marine in the detachment who was pleased by this. But there wasn't a damned thing they could do about it. They all knew as well that Captain Collins had been summarily forced ino it.

There was a grunt from George Swift. "Aye, and? What alse d'you axpect frum - "

"Silence in the file," Sergeant Devlin snapped. Swift obediently hushed, but it didn't take much imagination to guess what he'd been about to say. It was on every Marine's mind. Captain Leaford thought less of them than he did the sailors and this was only the most recent example. The file shuffled forward as Hanlen turned his musket in and made his way to the end of the line.

"Number Thirty-four musket for turnin' in, Sarn't," Vaughan said tonelessly and held the musket out.

The sergeant accepted the firelock and turned it to check the number carved in the brass buttplate. With a nod, he moved toward the rack and returned the musket to its place. Vaughan headed for the end of the file. "An' you, Swift?"

"Number Twenty-nine musket, Sarn't."

Vaughan risked a sidelong glance at his mate as Swift made his way to the end of the file and wondered what his feelings on the morning's floggings were. Most likely similar to his own. It was easier to think about that than the indignity being suffered by the lads topside. Never mind that Swift was not as willing to be friendly with the sailors as he. It was an undeniable sign of excess to put eleven men to the grating. None of them had forgotten the ten Marines from the quarterguard who had suffered similarly when the captain had first come aboard, either. How long would it be before Captain Leaford had any of them back up for striped shirts?

"Davenport."

The Cornishman's voice was crisp. "Number Nine musket, Sarn't."

There was a pause, then a grunt from Sergeant Devlin. "Right. That's all. To your duties."

The eight Marines departed, trooping toward the ladder in a single file. Devlin watched them go and heaved a sigh. The morning's business had been unpleasant, but it wasn't over yet. They all knew about the unfortunate sods who now had to help man the afterguard and foc's'le, as the ablest of the seamen in those crews would be working aloft. At least until the newly-flogged gun captains were fit to return to duty. It rankled deeply to be interfered with like that. Never mind that it left the detachment shorthanded itself. A whole guard's worth of men essentially made unavailable. It was madness.

Madness that, for Devlin, meant rearranging the sentry bill. There were going to be some men standing double watches, without a doubt. The lads weren't aware of this yet, he was mostly sure, and they weren't going to be happy when they found out. Hell. He wasn't happy about it himself. It wasn't his nature to suspect double-dealing, but he was hardpressed to keep from thinking that any slip up by the lads would be leapt upon by Captain Leaford and there would be Marines at the grating again.

It was all so stupid! Devlin slammed the arms locker door shut with more force than necessary and swore with feeling. It was bad enough having to be careful to avoid Leaford's notice when going about their usual duties and routines. How were they going to manage the same when they were on deck working alongside the seamen? It wouldn't even be necessary if the bastard hadn't made his own crew shorthanded so. Devlin tramped up the ladder and struggled to get his temper under control. He was beginning to wish he'd accepted the offer to shift over to Albatross before the brig had departed for New York.

Of course, if wishes were coin, he could set himself up nicely ashore and not have to go to sea again. This thought brought a wry, short-lived smile to his face. As if he could ever bear to stay ashore. He'd been stuck in Portsmouth barracks for five months once. It had nearly driven him mad.

"Sergeant?"

"Corporal." Devlin supposed that he shouldn't be surprised that McIntyre was seeking him out. He'd noticed the corporal had been more quiet than usual in the past days. In truth, the whole of McIntyre's section had been. Clearly whatever private word he'd had with them after the meeting with Captain Collins was working. That was all that mattered to Devlin. But what did McIntyre want now?

The other Irishman had two sheets of paper in his hand, which he held out to Devlin. "Fresh sentry bill, Sarn't. 'Cause of the lads working on deck."

Well then. That was unexpected. Or maybe not so unexpected. McIntyre had never been anything but sharp. He must have guessed that alterations were needed. Good lad. Shaking his head, he read over the lists that McIntyre had prepared, inwardly sighing at the younger Marine's chicken scratch. Some day, he would have to show him how to tidy up his handwriting.

"Thank you, Corporal," he said presently. There were no changes to make to either list, at least that he could see, but they needed Captain Collins' approval before it could be read out to the lads. "Carry on."

He shifted past the corporal without waiting for an acknowledgment, his mind already working on how best to broach this subject officially, once the new sentry bill had the captain's signature. None of the lads were going to be pleased to learn about this. He'd have to suggest that McIntyre and Jones be added to the rotation as well. Doing so would leave the responsibility of setting, checking, and relieving sentries solely to him, but he was prepared to accept that.

A wry smirk threatened to twist the corner of his mouth upward as he stopped outside the gunroom. They were all having to make sacrifices for the good of the ship. It was an ironic result of Captain Leaford's fondness for the cat. Devlin had no doubt the sea officer didn't think of it that way at all, either.

"Sarn't Devlin, sir," he called out and waited to be called aft. Hopefully the captain wouldn't find anything amiss with these two lists. Otherwise McIntyre would be rewriting them both. This thought made Devlin grimace, just slightly. Or maybe he'd rewrite them himself and avoid having to decipher the corporal's scrawl.

"Come aft, Sergeant," came the reply. Devlin stepped past the sentry and headed for Collins' cabin. When you got down to it, he thought as he gave a perfunctory knock at the thin cabin door before opening it, there was always something to adapt to when you were at sea. He, at least, had it easier than the officers, which was something to be happy for.

~

"Hey, Jonesy!"

With a yawn, Corporal Jones stirred himself awake and looked up. "Wot?" He asked, working his hands free from the shirt he had fallen asleep trying to mend.

"Gerrup, ya lazy," George Durham chided and pointed toward the aft companion ladder. "Lachlan wants ya. An' hurry!"

"Wot?" Jones asked again even as he moved toward the Scotsman. Of all the Marines aboard, Lachlan was one of the least excitable, which made it odd to see him so eager. As he got closer, however, he realised that Lachlan was standing closer to the gunroom door than usual, his head canted to the side in a clear sign that he was listening to whatever was happening within. When Jones joined him, he realised there was an argument roaring full flame. He did not need to ask about the cause for the argument, for one of the first bits he overheard answered the question immediately.

" - plainly have no appreciation for the potential danger we have now been put in. It is hardly a secret that there are French line-of-battle ships roaming about the Caribbean. We are already less the men sent away in the prize. What is the sense in further weakening this ship by employing men to keep her working who are much better served in - " That was Collins. Jones inched closer to the door and returned the quick, conspiratorial grin flashed at him by Lachlan.

"Stop there, sir." The other officer in the gunroom interrupted. By the sound of it, the second officer was Lieutenant Simcoe. That was no surprise. "Do not for a moment think that the captain is unaware that there are enemy patrols out, the same as ours. He is more than capable of doing what is necessary to defend this ship. By God, sir, you know as well as I that our overall mission is vastly more important than fretting senselessly over a few men who were punished for disobedience!"

There was the barest of pauses. "You may play careless with your sailors' lives, sir, but do not presume to do the same with my Marines. I would rather give up a prize than risk being captured because the ship is understrength and unable to adequately defend herself! Surely you cannot agree that having fourteen sailors on sicklist is good for this ship?"

"You are entirely too bold, Major," Simcoe snarled. "Do you accuse the captain of not knowing his trade?"

"I was not questioning his knowledge as a seaman," Collins answered, his voice more level than Simcoe's. "Do not presume to charge me with making accusations, when you are making accusations yourself. My concern, sir, is with the lack of interest shown in avoiding needless danger to the ship. Thirteen men on sicklist and seventeen gone with the prize. This is hardly good sense, especially given our orders. I nearly think you have little care for the men yourself!"

Something slammed hard against the gunroom table and the two eavesdropping Marines started. "I will not be spoken to in that manner, sir."

"Then do not continue this farce of a conversation," Collins shot back.

"You are too forward - "

"If you would excuse me, sir," the Captain of Marines interrupted, "I have work to do."

"Scowp!" Lachlan hissed, as footsteps approached, almost too quickly for Jones to react to in time. The corporal scrambled away as silently as he could, throwing himself down by the closest sea-chest just as the obviously-angry Simcoe stormed out of the gunroom. He was out of sight topside in only a handful of seconds. In the pause after the first luff's departure, there was the distinct sound of a sigh from within the gunroom.

Then, to Jones' dismay, came a call of "Corporal Jones!"

The Welshman flinched, then scrambled to his feet. Being summoned aft so soon after his captain's argument could not be good. He exchanged a bewildered glance with Lachlan before ducking into the gunroom. "Sir?"

Captain Collins did not reply immediately, being busy at that moment in returning a bottle of wine to the sideboard. "How long have you been aboard, Corporal?" He asked, turning his attention back to Jones.

"Two years an' some, sir."

"How long have I been aboard, would you say?"

"Year an' a 'alf, sir."

"And in that year and a half, Corporal, have you ever known me to tolerate blatant eavesdropping on private conversations?"

Jones suppressed a shiver. "Never, sir."

"Indeed." Collins regarded him levelly. "While I appreciate there is no preventing the passing of rumours, I cannot tolerate any man who places more value upon knowing the latest gossip as it is happening rather than upon his prescribed duties. Which, unless am I much mistaken, you are not exempt from despite being part of the larboard watch."

"Aye, sir." He winced. "I means, no sir, yeh ain't mistaken."

"Good. It is only five bells, I believe. You may call the men on deck for musket drill. Send Sergeant Devlin aft to me before you go topside as well. And you may not palm responsibility for leading the drill onto McIntyre, either. He has his own duties to attend. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Carry on, Corporal."

The Welshman saluted and fled. Collins watched him go and waited until the gunroom door had been pushed shut before heaving another sigh. Clearly there was to be no respite from this madness for him. Not even his Marines could keep from causing headaches. Was it truly too much to ask for to have at least one day pass without some nasty piece of business cropping up?

"Coffee, sir," said Hardy as he emerged from the gunroom's pantry. "Gone a bit cold by now, though."

The mug was accepted with a nod and Collins tossed back half its contents in a single large gulp. It was indeed cold but he hardly cared. At that moment, it was more welcome than wine. "Fetch out the books, if you please. Then collect your musket and join the others on deck."

It was, Collins thought wearily, a mark of how irritable he felt after the clash with Lieutenant Simcoe that he could not even muster up the forbearance to keep from snapping at his own steward. He would have to apologise later. He barely heard Hardy's bland "Aye aye, sir" as he sank into a chair at the gunroom table. It was all too easy to fall into a temper these days, it seemed. The detachment's books were delivered within a few moments, then Hardy was gone. Barely a second later, Sergeant Devlin was calling out to announce his presence at the door.

"Come aft, Sergeant," Collins replied and drained the last of his coffee. Cold or not, the drink helped buoy his spirits a little. Hopefully it would be enough to get through the rest of the day.

~

A full watch on deck as part of the working crew had left Tom Mayden aching and exhausted. He'd never imagined that a seaman's lot was so taxing. How did they stand it, day after day? He had only stood one watch and he'd be happy not to go through another. The weather was fair now, too. He didn't want to think about how hard it would be in a storm.

It wasn't yet time for hammocks to be piped down, frustratingly, but in his present state, Mayden thought he could easily fall asleep on his feet. This was ill-advised, of course, so he settled for tucking himself against one of the sturdy ship's knees near his sea-chest. It was not anything like as comfortable, but it would do. His aching body craved nothing more than a little rest. As his eyelids drooped, Mayden silently cursed the ship's captain for making all this necessary. Marines standing watches like seamen indeed...

He was just about asleep, when, inevitably, there was a shout from somewhere above and an immediate, accompanying rush of Marines to get topside. Of all the stupid things... Mayden cursed and rubbed at his eyes. "What the devil's goin' on up there?"

"Git up an' go see fer yerself!" Albert Ware snapped.

"Lookout's spotted a sail, just off to starboard," somebody called down the ladder.

Another sail, was it? Mayden groaned, but heaved himself up to his feet and headed toward the ladder. Another sail meant the potential for another fight and another prize. His gnawing weariness faded at the prospect of some action. Except the other ship was too far away to be identified and with nightfall drawing on steadily, there would be little chance of catching up. A pity. A twilight battle would have been interesting. The Marines who'd crowded on deck to see what was happening were now laying down bets about the other ship's nationality. No surprise there.

"That's a bloody disappointment," Mayden muttered to himself as he tramped below again. There were shouts echoing topside and the Marines who'd only a moment before been on deck were streaming back down the ladder. The officer of the watch had grown swiftly tired of their babbling presence. Shaking his head, Mayden dropped down in his previous spot and pulled his hat back down over his eyes. He hadn't offered anything for the wagers being made, as he limited his gambling to dice-throwing only.

The chattering and speculation quickly resumed as the men got settled in their customary places, creating a buzz of noise that helped lull Mayden to sleep once more. There was little else to do so late in the evening anyway, even with the temporary excitement caused by the sighting of another sail. Besides, Mayden thought fuzzily as his eyelids slid heavily closed, if that ship belonged to the enemy, it would be long gone by next morning.

"Lazy bugger," Ware grumbled, shaking his head after watching Mayden drop away to sleep.

"He's a bloody Yankee," Sam Tate said with open distaste. "Ever' lad knows them ain't worth the shirts on they backs."

" 'Ey, easy now," Higgins warned. "Mebbe Mayden's a Yankee, but I bain't zeen nobbody of that ilk what 'ates them rebels more'n he does."

Tate curled his lip. "He hates 'em 'cause he wishes he could be 'em, I'll bet. All to nought worthless Mayden is, 'specially in a scrap. I ain't never seen him do anythin' useful, 'cept lose money at dice."

"Worthless in a scrap?" Higgins shook his head in disbelief. "Whurr wuz 'ee whun the rest of us wuz boardin' that sloop, then? Tom there wuz the on'y lad what kep' up wi' me an' Bell, an' both of us hurnnin' through 'em bastards lak we wuz."

"A blind man coulda kep' up with you baith, goin' 'long like Billy-O as you was," Tate countered. "Left a path wide 'nough fer a damned second-rate to pass through, an' all. Don't mean a bloody thing. He din't even go 'board 'til after mosta the fightin' was over. Dallackin' the time awee, he were. I seen that with me own eyes."

"Yer fulla shite, Tate," Higgins snarled. "Mayden's got more balls'n ee'll ever 'ave. Taks a brassy sort to go an' 'list wile alla Boston-town's roarin' up agin anythin' in a red coat."

"Steady, lads," Ware cautioned, casting a wary glance toward the gunroom. It would be just like Captain Collins to appear when the argument started to get really heated. But, of course, he was ignored by the other two Marines.

"Don't see how that'd take any balls. More like jus' tryin' to save his own skin," Tate sneered.

With a derisive snort, Higgins shook his head. "Jus' 'cuz yer da got done fer by them Yankees don't mean they's all bad. Served 'im roight, sez Eye!"

"None o' yer camperlash!" Tate cried, coming sharply to his feet. "You'd not know the firs' thing 'bout how bad that lot is, anyhow. Might's even be a damned rebel yerself, I think, for all you love 'em so!"

"Oi. Callin' Eye disloyal, 'ee Chezre nestle-tripe?"

"Mebbe I am. If the turned coat fits!"

Higgins heaved a tin of brick-dust at Tate's head and followed it closely with both fists. The lid came off the tin and brick-dust cascaded everywhere, filling the air with an unpleasant haze. Somebody shouted encouragement as Higgins knocked Tate flat onto his back and proceeded to mercilessly rain punches down on him. It was all Tate could do to protect his face, never mind fight back.

"That's anuff, Higgins!"

"Gerroff him!"

"Grab his arms!"

"What is this nonsense?"

All movement stopped instantly, even Higgins' wild attempts to throw off the Marines who were pulling him away from Tate. The cold, stern voice belonged to Mister Thurlow, one of the midshipmen. Of all the officers aboard, it would have to be Thurlow to catch two Marines fighting. There was going to be trouble for all of them, for sure.

"You men are fighting, I see. That's against the Articles, you know." Thurlow looked around at the painfully silent gathering, his eyes almost glittering with delight at the prospect of seeing two of them punished. "Stand that man on his feet!"

Tate was heaved unceremoniously off the deck. Blood streamed from his nose and lips, despite his attempts to staunch it. Thurlow curled his lip in disgust. "Where is your sergeant?"

"Here, sir," Sergeant Devlin said, from behind the midshipman. He had quietly come up the ladder from the orlop deck, where he'd been checking the sentries at the magazine and the spirit room. Pity that he hadn't arrived sooner. Devlin's temper, while fearsome, was infinitely preferable to Mister Thurlow's cold enmity.

Thurlow jumped in surprise, then scowled to cover his embarrassment. "About time, Sergeant. Have these men placed in irons, for the offence of fighting."

A shiver rippled through the watching Marines. It was inevitable that Tate and Higgins would get sent to the leg-irons, but they resented having a midshipman as the one giving that order.

"Shouldn't Tate go an' see Doctor Finch first, sir?" Devlin asked, not moving an inch away from where he stood. If the circumstances had not been so grave, Higgins might have smirked. Trust Devlin to be so casually confident about questioning orders.

"I see nothing wrong with him," the midshipman answered with a sneer. "Get him confined, Sergeant. That is an order."

If Thurlow had not been an officer, or even an officer-to-be, Higgins would have happily flattened his nose too. What gave Mister Thurlow the right to be such a horrid snot? He couldn't keep from curling his lip as he headed for the ladder. That was the second time the midshipman had poked his sharp little nose where it didn't belong. Stupid brat. Tate was following close behind him, his mouth and nose still leaking blood. Where had Captain Collins gone, Higgins found himself wondering. It wasn't like him to fail to be the first one to get wind of trouble and turn up to stop it.

"They may stay there for the night," Thurlow was saying, behind them. "Perhaps they will learn better to get along that way."

What he meant, Higgins thought bitterly, was that he was not going to inform the captain of the incident until the morning. They were headed for the grating for this, he knew. If they were lucky - odds being strongly against that, given who their captain was - they'd only get a dozen lashes for it. But Donahue the Tar had gotten two dozen for allegedly swearing at a petty officer, which meant they weren't going to get out of this lightly. "Bloody spiteful little bastard, Mister Thurlow is," the Somersetman muttered.

"Shuddub," Tate gurgled, spitting out some blood.

"Both of you shut up," Devlin snapped as he came up the ladder. "Didn't know my lads would be so stupid as to get caught fightin' by a bleedin' midshipman. Sit down there an' keep your fat gobs shut. Sawbones'll be along in a bit to look at your nose, Tate, but it's more'n you bloody deserve!"

The two Marines glared at each other while Devlin secured their ankles in the irons. An annoyed-looking George Durham stood half a pace away, musket in hand. He'd serve out the rest of the watch as prisoner sentry and he obviously hated it.

"Next time you two get to fussin' like that," Durham grumbled after Devlin had gone, "cosna pick a better bloody reason than quibblin' 'bout that lummock Mayden?"

Higgins folded his arms across his chest and slumped forward as far as he could comfortably. He hated being confined in the leg-irons. This was the first time he'd been sent here to wait all night, though. Damned little pig Mister Thurlow was. Tate spat another mouthful of blood out into the shadows and cursed.

A slight smirk lifted the corner of Higgins' mouth. He wasn't sorry for giving Tate a drubbing like that, even if it was going to end up costing him two dozen strokes. It served the bastard right, didn't it? Accusing Higgins of being a traitor for sticking up for a mate. A beating was the least that remark deserved. Not that Tate had any real concept of what it meant to be loyal to the lads around him. It was about time somebody had taught him a lesson, really.

Higgins chuckled when he heard the faint crunch as Tate realigned his own nose. The Cheshireman's nose would never look right again. So much the better. The bruises would fade but his nose would always be crooked. An outward sign that he was a mouthy idiot. Hopefully Tate would remember not to spew that rubbish while Higgins was around, after this. It was perhaps the only good outcome to be hoped for.

~

Mister Prewett was up to something. That in itself wasn't anything new, but the timing of his poking about was too close to the addition of Marines to the duty watch to be true coincidence. The sailing master had not bothered to conceal his disgust when four Marines were detailed to join the afterguard when the watches changed. This change, when Sergeant Devlin had announced it, had been greeted with groans. They were giving up eight men to the larboard watch. It was nothing new for Marines to help from the deck when it came to help brace yards or the like, but to have men outright assigned to a watch on deck? Billy Springfield had never heard of such a thing.

His unhappiness at the change, which, unbelievably, had been ordered by the captain, was nothing like Mister Prewett's, however. The sailing master had spotted Tom Mayden with the afterguard and had immediately complained to Lieutenant Simcoe, who was officer of the watch. It was perhaps no more than could be expected, given Mister Prewett's strong dislike of colonials, but Springfield had no doubt there would be trouble if Prewett had anything to do about it.

It seemed there was indeed going to be trouble at that. After his complaint had been dismissed out of hand by the first luff, Prewett had sulked for a full glass. Now, however, he was intently watching Mayden and the rest of the afterguard. No doubt just waiting for one of them to slip up, even in the slightest, so he could point out the failing to the first luff. The scheming spiteful bastard. Springfield didn't think much of the sailing master. Surreptitiously watching the grey-haired old man's shifty glancing about only confirmed this opinion.

The entire ship already knew of the fight between Higgins and Tate, and the cause of it as well. It was something Mister Prewett had sneered about briefly at the start of the watch, before catching sight of Mayden. Springfield wondered if that figured into the sailing master's mood any before deciding that it probably did. Was it something he would use against Mayden? Probably. Given a chance, or even half of one, anyway. The old man was definitely looking for just that.

"Mister Prewett," the first luff said, his tone brusque. "I should be obliged if you kept your attention on your duty, not the afterguard."

"Yes sir." Prewett sounded faintly resentful but obediently turned his gaze skyward. After a moment, he checked the binnacle and grumbled a rebuke at the duty quartermaster for letting the ship stray off course.

Springfield smirked inwardly. That was more like it. Not that it would last. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mayden and one of the seaman head for the stairs, and knew it would only be a matter of time before Prewett would be watching the afterguard as closely as he could get away with. What in the devil was the grumpy old bastard plotting?

"Permission to go below, sir," said Prewett after several minutes.

"Yes, go on." There was a note of weariness in Lieutenant Simcoe's voice and the first luff didn't bother turning away from his study of the distant horizon. Something like a sneer briefly touched Prewett's face but it was quickly squashed. Without a further word, the sailing master headed for the aft ladder. The mood on the quarterdeck seemed to lighten, just slightly, with his departure. Or at least it seemed that way to Springfield.

It didn't seem like Prewett had been gone for very long before he was back. He took his place near the wheel and, Springfield noticed, paid no further attention to the afterguard. This made him passingly uncomfortable. There was something going on here, he knew it, and the sailing master's sudden disinterest in everything but his duties made Springfield suspicious. What had he gone below after?

He spent the rest of the watch on alert for any change in Prewett's behaviour that might suggest his intentions, but the sailing master gave away nothing. Other than to report a shift in the wind to the first luff, there had been nothing of consequence. It was with a sense of frustrated relief that Springfield turned over his post to Tom Jenkins at the end of the watch. Nothing had happened, at least not that he'd seen or heard, which should be a good thing. To anyone else, he reckoned it would be. He found it easy to be suspicious of Prewett, however. Experience had taught him to always be wary of men like the sailing master.

"Georgie," he called, returning to the messdeck with the others after turning their muskets. "C'mere."

His mate, Durham, pulled a face and stirred away from his sea-chest. "Whaddaya want now, ya old hen?"

"You seen the sailin' master when he come below last watch?" Springfield peeled out of his coat and laid it carefully aside atop Willie Harrison's sea-chest.

"No. Why?"

"He's up to somethin'. Spent half the watch starin' at the afterguard. Mayden in particular."

Durham shrugged and dropped down to sit on the deck again. "So? He prob'ly conner bear that beggar. I dunner, neither. Ain't it his fault Higgins an' Tate are gooin' up for some strokes in a bit?"

"That ain't my meanin'. Listen, Prewett's up to somethin'. He don't like any lad who's a Yankee, for one. I'll bet my hat he's plannin' somethin' an' somebody's gonna get in trouble for it."

His mate grunted. "Long's it ain't any of the lads, I dunner care. Neither should you. Things is bad 'nuff for us without thinkin' too hard about things that ain't so. 'Sides. Ain't like we got a corporal whattle keep us outta trouble, so we gotta do that our own selves."

This was true. When it came to standing up for his Marines, Corporal Jones was about as useful as a broken flint. Springfield wasn't wholly convinced that there was nothing to worry about, however. There was a nagging little voice in the back of his mind whispering that something wasn't right. He let the matter drop anyway, since to have pursued it would have earned him a quick, if light, whack to the ear from Durham.

"So anyways," he said presently. Best to move on to other topics. "What d'you reckon the cap'n preach at us about at Defaulters this time? The importance of tolerance for all Yankees everywhere, even when they're 'mongst us?"

Durham laughed.

~

His first stop before going topside was the irons. While he was not on the best of terms with Tate, whom he considered a shade too forward in sharing his opinions, Higgins was one of his closer mates. Accordingly, Sam Lachlan ventured to the gundeck, glad to be out of his stifling duty uniform and therefore both more comfortable and less obvious. The two prisoners were slouched on the deck, looking about as unhappy as could be expected. David Shaner, the sentry, eyed Lachlan warily for a moment before shrugging.

"Be quiet with it," he said in an undertone, when Lachlan showed him the brassbound wooden mug he'd brought up with him. Grinning slightly, the Scotsman crouched near Higgins and held the mug out. Shaner was a sharp sort. He'd be more worried about Captain Leaford making an untimely appearance than the impropriety of Lachlan giving the prisoners some hoarded grog.

"Bain't that perfick," was Higgins' judgement after sampling the mug's contents. Both of them ignored the sullen glare Tate was giving them. " 'Ee allus wuz a prime sort, fer a Scot!"

Lachlan smirked. "So says ye, plo'share. Cannae gi' ye mair till the morn. Ye haa' ane scran todee?"

The reply was to the negative, which drew a slight frown to his face. A glance up at Shaner was not helpful. "I've had no chance to bring anything up at breakfast-time," the sentry explained, his voice dropping noticeably when he added, "Mister Thurlow's been keeping a close eye on us here, see."

Christ. No great surprise there, but it was still unwelcome information. It also meant that Lachlan could not linger for as long as he'd hoped. "I'll save ye a bit at dinner," he promised. He'd be able to sneak an extra plate away to Higgins' mess easily enough. Or, failing that, he'd donate his own meal.

"Fit d'ye reckon the cap'n'll gi' ye?"

"Eh? Oh. A roun' dozen. Bain't lak we got to murd'rin' each other." The Somersetman shrugged. "Be noice if et wuz gonna be now, 'stead o' at eighit bells. Waitin' fer et's worst!"

That was true enough. It did the men no good to sit in irons, with nothing to do but await their due punishment. For all Captain Leaford professed a desire to not have 'justice' delayed in his ship, he was happy to make an exception to that when Mister Thurlow was involved, it seemed. That midshipman was making a name for himself now and it was going to lead to some lad getting badly hurt. Lachlan knew it.

"Dozen isnae bad, though. Might've been mair, ye ken, i' it'd been the cap'n fit caught ye."

"Aye, s'pose. Worth et, et wuz, 'cuz some lads be needin' lessons teachin'. Do et agin, I wou'd!" There was a dangerous glimmer in Higgins' eyes as he glanced deliberately in Tate's direction.

"I should never ha' said nought to you, if you hadna begun o' mey," grumbled Tate.

"Wheesht. Nae lad's spikkin' t'ye," Lachlan retorted.

Higgins took another pull from the mug, then offered it up to Shaner, who shook his head. "On duty, fella. I daren't chance it!"

Shrugging, Higgins drained the mug and passed it back to Lachlan. While he could understand Shaner's reasoning, it was hard to keep from feeling the man was just a little too priggish at times. He sounded like one of the Quality anyway, despite being a drayman's son. But, Lachlan supposed, some lads simply were born to act like they were better than their station.

"Better scram, Sammy," Shaner warned, his head canted just slightly to the side, obviously listening. Lachlan's ears pricked up too when he heard the last peal of the ship's bell from topside. "It's gone two bells. There'll be gun drill in a moment."

He was in the right of it, Lachlan knew, and he nodded. Sure enough, the boatswain and his mates had begun trilling on their calls. It was indeed time to go. He'd nip back down to the messdeck to stow his mug, then it was up to the weatherdeck for the second bit of business needing tending. He was not assigned to any gun crew, fortunately, and didn't need to be anywhere until the watches changed. The Marines would not assemble for Defaulters until just before eight bells.

"See ye beggars later," the Scotsman said and headed quickly for the ladder. Seamen were already pouring down the fore and aft ladders, their bare feet slapping over the deck in a constant, dull, rumble of thunder. A handful of Tars made straight for the great cabin, the screens of which needed to be struck below in order for there to be a clean sweep on the gundeck. Lachlan grinned at Colbert Smith, who was thus temporarily relieved of his duty as great cabin sentry.

"Whoor's thee off to in sich a tearin' hurry?"

"Lad needs the heads e'ery now'n'then, ye ken!"

Smith shook his head. "Best hurry! If thee's laate f' inspection..."

He didn't finish the sentence but he hardly needed to. Lachlan knew very well what punishment he could expect if he failed to turn out for parade, on time and properly kitted. He'd take his chances though. Billy Springfield grumbled a rebuke at him for nearly stepping on his freshly-blacked shoes but Lachlan ignored him. It was quick work to stow his mug back into the sea-chest he shared with Tom Jenkins, then he was off again, making his way through the seamen's messdeck to the forrard ladder.

Topside, the odds and ends of the ship's company were hard at work holystoning the deck. Lachlan stepped carefully around the kneeling line of men and, just as carefully, kept to the very edge of the deck as he made his way across the foc's'le. Clambering up onto the bulwark and thence down to the larboard head was no great feat, but of course these were calm seas. Lachlan balanced easily on the grating, the only thing standing between himself and the surging bow wave, and unbuttoned his trousers. Sitting down was a neater trick but he was an old hand at this.

"Don't you be fallin' in, lobsterback," a foc's'leman warned cheerfully.

"I willnae gi' ye the pleasure," Lachlan returned just as cheerfully, twisting around a little to glance upward and see who was teasing him. He was obliged to shout now for the guns had begun firing, making the very air seem to tremble. "Dinnae get caugh' nae wurkin' now, Goodfellow. It's bad luck ye ken!"

Dan Goodfellow laughed. "Oh aye, cully, it is that. Yon middie's a'ready been about. Chivvyin' the waisters what're scrubbin' the deck. Cap'n's below at the gundeck, so's the young gennelman reckons he's in the clear for it. He's all over flush wi' himself, I dessay!"

"Gae awa' aff wi' ye an' leave a lad t'his peace," Lachlan said with a smirk. Goodfellow winked, then shinned down off the bowsprit and disappeared from view without another word, leaving Lachlan to his business. It did not take before he was hauling himself back to his feet, now relieved. As he buttoned his trousers up again, he took advantage of his concealed position to observe the weather deck.

The line of men scrubbing the deck had advanced to the boat tier, leaving a bright, glistening stretch of clean deck behind. A handful of men would man the deck-pump presently and sluice frigid seawater over the weatherdeck, clearing away the sand and grit from the holystones. After that, some waisters would flog the deck dry. It was draining work but necessary. Lachlan's gaze trailed slowly over the whole of the weatherdeck, taking in every detail. Away aft, it was only a skeleton crew at the quarterdeck. The officer of the watch, the sailing master, one helmsman, and the ever-present Marine sentry.

True to Goodfellow's report, Mister Thurlow was indeed topside, making a show of overseeing the holystoners. Lachlan watched him nudge a seaman none-too-gently with his shoe and snarl something undoubtedly unpleasant. Over the intermittent roar of the guns, it was impossible to hear anything. Not that hearing the words was strictly necessary. The midshipman's intent was all too clear by his behaviour. The little bastard.

Thurlow was not the only midshipman on deck, Lachlan realised. Mister Hamilton had appeared up the forrard ladder, his over-large hat nearly covering his eyes. Even as Lachlan watched, the undersized midshipman turned to go aft and, unable to properly see because of his hat, cannoned squarely into Mister Thurlow's back. The collision brought an immediate and harsh reaction from Thurlow, who swung around to see who had run into him, his face purpling in anger. Hamilton shrank back instinctively but he was caught. An all-too-short respite in the booming gunfire allowed Lachlan to hear a snippet of a shout, which was more than enough.

He slung himself easily back onto the foc's'le and moved casually to the larboard pinrail. Dan Goodfellow and one of his mates were there, flaking down the lines, and after a second's hesitation, Lachlan joined them. He was not one of the poor fools marked down to work with the seamen, but in his checked shirt and grey off-watch trousers, he looked like a Tar. Or near enough to be mistaken for one from a distance. Goodfellow glanced warily at Lachlan when the Scotsman approached, something in his expression hinting at a warning.

"Wheesht," muttered Lachlan as he set himself to the work of helping the two Tars. "Haa' a peep t'larboard. There's trouble aboot."

The seaman darted a glance over his shoulder and grunted an oath. "Saints preserve us. If it ain't one thing..."

Lachlan made no reply, intent as he was on keeping an eye on the two youngsters. It seemed that Mister Hamilton was rooted to the spot, though this was helped by the fact that Thurlow had a grip on the smaller midshipman's coat. The little beast. If he could have interfered with any security, Lachlan would have already done so, but getting between Thurlow and his chosen victim of the moment would end well for nobody.

"Whyn't you go stop him?" Goodfellow hissed, likewise keeping a casual eye on the two midshipmen. "High time sommody did, sure!"

"Stow it, Dan," the other foc's'leman admonished in an undertone. "A middie's prob'lems ain't our'n."

"They is when that'n is concerned," was the retort.

Lachlan looked over his shoulder in time to see Mister Thurlow hasten toward the forrard ladder, his expression black. Of Mister Hamilton there was no sign. That was not good. He moved to follow, ignoring the grumbled rebuke from the younger sailor when he left his work unfinished. It was not truly his concern anyway.

He went swiftly down the ladder to the gundeck, and nearly ran slap-bang into Mister Thurlow's back. This brush with disaster was warded off, happily, by the presence of Lieutenant Simcoe. The midshipman turned sharply to see who was behind him but Lachlan was already gone down the next ladder. It helped that Mister Simcoe was apparently speaking to the boy, which thus held him back from following. In his present mood, Lachlan doubted an encounter with the midshipman would go well for him, being only a lowly Marine. Especially after that incident near the foc's'le.

The messdeck was reached in a twinkling. Away aft, the Marine detachment was busy gathering up clothing and kit in preparation for musket drill. By rights, Lachlan should be with them. He carried on downward without a second thought, nearly running straight over someone coming up the ladder from the orlop. The midshipmen's berth was down here and he guessed that was where Mister Hamilton would have gone. The man he'd narrowly avoided knocking off the ladder snarled an oath-laden rebuke after him but Lachlan was already out of sight in the gloom of the orlop.

Having a lanthorn on the orlop was a risky thing, which meant the only light came from the companionway. This was not much and he drew up short at the bottom of the ladder to peer about him into the inky darkness. There was nothing up forrard here that needed a sentry, which meant Lachlan had never been down here before. Where, exactly, was the midshipmen's berth? He stared around into the gloom with a frown, realising that his headlong dash down here had been undertaken without his really having any firm idea what he was doing. Beyond, of course, the necessity of catching Mister Hamilton - but even that seemed a wildly foolish idea after the moment of urgency had passed.

All the same, Lachlan stayed where he was, both ears straining to hear the slightest noise that would indicate the lad was down here. It was almost possible to tune out the ongoing thunder of the guns from two decks above. Leaford was certainly a keen one for exercising with live shot, by the sound of it. Hmph. Lachlan put all thoughts of the ship's captain from his mind and decided to take a chance.

"Mister Hamilton, sir?"

There was no sound but the trembling echo of the guns above. Lachlan inched closer to the short ladder leading down into the hold itself, thinking he could do worse than feel his way around a little in an attempt to find the midshipman. He was here, he might as well try. Moving carefully to avoid catching his feet on anything unseen, Lachlan felt his way around the fore orlop platform, his searching fingers ghosting over thin wooden screens and doors. These were store rooms, he learned, for each door was locked.

Presently, he found the midshipmen's berth itself. It was separated from the orlop platform by a simple canvas sheet. An old storm sail, by the feel of it. Lachlan hesitated before easing past the makeshift door. He could see little inside the berth itself, save for the dim outlines of sea-chests and hammocks, the latter slung apparently wily-nily. A tiny table held pride of place in the berth but there was no one around it. No one in the berth at all, to be sure. Disappointed, but not surprised, Lachlan withdrew.

"Mister Hamilton?"

Still no response. He looked around again, listening, but could detect no sound that might reasonably come from a pint-sized boy. Up forrard, he could see nothing but shapeless shadows. It was a near-perfect darkness down here. Where the devil had that nipper got to? A sense of duty began tugging at Lachlan's conscience, keeping him in place with his ears and eyes straining. Silence. Or what might have passed for silence but for the guns and their racket. The concussion of broadsides being fired made the deck shiver beneath his feet.

One more try, then he resolved to venture down into the hold. A search by feel was the only thing he could think of that might reveal the midshipman's presence. It was plain that the lad was not in the immediate area. That meant he had tucked himself away into a bolt-hole most likely known only to himself. Chances were small that Lachlan would discover him. The hold was where the ship's boys were known to disappear to when they wanted to skive off their duties or avoid some cross-tempered sailor. Or a brutish, bullying midshipman.

"Mister Hamilton, sir. Dae ye coome oot, I ain't nae mair'n a Marine."

It might work, it might not. At least it should be obvious by his voice that he was a common lad, and hopefully no threat. A thought struck him and he sat down abruptly, heedless of the rough shingle beneath him. "I ain't gaun awa' aff, sir, till ye coomes oot."

He peered into the blackness until his eyes ached. His call had gone unanswered but he could not help feeling like Mister Hamilton was nearby and had heard. It was down to the midshipman to emerge from his bolt-hole, if he felt safe enough. The one thing Lachlan was counting on to help was his accent, for what was more likely to draw Mister Hamilton out than to hear a fellow Scotsman?

Something that might have been a ripple of moment away to his left drew his notice and he froze, not even daring to breathe. It could be nothing more than a rat, scuttling about amongst the casks and barrels, but somehow Lachlan doubted it. His straining ears told him there was a sound like cloth rustling over there.

"Wh-who is there?"

Relief flooded through him like a bow-wave. Good lad! "Jes' meself, sir. Marine lad. It's safe, sir. Naebody aboot but meself, an' ye."

There was a long pause, then Lachlan caught a definite glimpse of movement, this time some small distance ahead. A pale flash in the dark resolved itself into a youthful, uncertain face. Mister Hamilton eased toward the Marine with understandable caution. He would not be used to anyone coming here looking for him with anything except malicious intent.

"What d'ye want?"

Lachlan hesitated, then got slowly to his feet. The seat of his trousers felt damp from where he'd been sitting. "Was lookin' fur ye, sir," he replied, calmly retreating to the steps leading up to the orlop platform. "C'mon, s'dry here, an' mair comf'table besides."

It took a moment's clear consideration before Mister Hamilton followed. Lachlan had dropped himself down onto the top step, where he waited patiently. Presently, the boy ventured up to the bottom of the steps, where he stopped. "What d'ye want?" He asked again.

"T'spik wi' ye," Lachlan answered. "I seen fit happened on deck, liek. Most o' it anewee. Pull yeself oop a plank, sir? I'm nae gaun t'harm ye."

The midshipman eased himself closer to the stairs with unhidden wariness and in a moment Lachlan saw why. The light from the companionway was just enough to make the vivid red mark on the lad's cheek glaring and obvious. Despite himself, he sucked in a breath. Life at sea was hard, especially for boys, but that was beyond the realm of what was acceptable. That must have happened while Lachlan had not been looking, or else he would certainly have intervened.

"Did he gi' ye tha', sir?"

Mister Hamilton recoiled instinctively, his expression closing. "I don't - "

"Sir," Lachlan interrupted. "He's ga' ye a lump, I can see tha', plain's dee. Noo, I'm nae gaun t'harm ye, or peach on ye. I jes' reckon ye needs an ear, liek."

This was met with another silence, during which it seemed that Mister Hamilton was sizing him up. Weighing his options, perhaps. There was little enough reason for him to believe Lachlan, for who of the adults in the crew had ever really paid any mind to the midshipmen and their activities? It was no wonder the poor bairn felt he was best served to flee down here into the formless dark.

Suddenly unsure of himself, Lachlan pressed on with, "Me name's Sam. I've a braither aboot yer own years. He's called Graeme. Nae go' the sense he were born wi', but he's nae a bad lad. D'ye ken, he reckons he's gaun frae a Marine liek meself, an' by noo I 'magine he's done it. He's on'y wee, fit I 'member o' him, but ye puts me t'mind of him, liek. He wants t'dae his bes' an' tha's aa' tha' counts, ain't it?. Nivver mindin' crabbit gowks liek faa gi' ye tha'. Daein' yer bes' is the ticket. Were ye me braither, I'd gi' tha' 'un a proper clout, an' tae the divvil wi' him."

It was altogether a longer speech than he'd intended and he faltered into silence, at once embarrased with himself for rambling and all but certain he had overstepped his bounds. To his great surprise, however, Mister Hamilton flung himself forward, his arms going around Lachlan's neck. The movement caught him unprepared. He would not have expected such a reaction, but he was not about to push the lad away. After a heartbeat's hesitation, he returned the impulsive hug and pretended not to hear the light hiccuping sobs that made the lad's small body shiver. Only the purest fear could cause this and Lachlan loathed Mister Midshipman Thurlow for being the source of it.

Presently, Mister Hamilton drew back, sniffling audibly. He cuffed at his dripping nose and seemed on the verge of speech, but the clatter of shoes on the ladder above stopped him cold. In an instant, the midshipman was pulling away, retreating hastily to the concealing darkness of the hold. Lachlan was on his feet at once, turning toward the ladder. Like as not that was Mister damned Thurlow, come to visit more torment on his messmate, but he wouldn't get past Lachlan. Enough was enough.

The feet and legs that appeared on the ladder were too long to belong to Thurlow, however. Likewise, the voice that called, "Thomas?" was much too mellow and deep to be Thurlow's. The young lad who halted at the bottom of the ladder was in fact Mister Quinn, the senior midshipman and, in Lieutenant Carver's absence, the ship's acting third luff. When he caught sight of Lachlan, standing squarely on the top of the stairs leading into the hold, he checked immediately and drew himself up.

"What do you do here, sir?"

Lachlan saluted but held his ground. How honest could he be with this lad? The question was answered for him, however, when Mister Hamilton reappeared, his movements brisk and his voice plainly relieved.

"Nathan! I'm here. Sam's a'right, he is. Have ye seen - "

A curse escaped from Mister Quinn when he too saw the mark on Mister Hamilton's cheek. "Jesus wept. When did - never mind. I'll sort him, by God I will. This is more than - " he cut himself off abruptly with a sharp glance at Lachlan, as if only then remembering the Marine was there. There was no mistaking the suspicion that lingered in the midshipman's gaze. It was something Lachlan could well understand.

"Seems it's awwas the wee 'uns fit ha' the worst o' it, 'cos o' them bein' wee, liek, an' tha's nae fair," he ventured and mentally prepared himself for a reprimand for being too forward.

Instead, Mister Quinn quirked a very brief smile. "Indeed. I suppose. Thank you, Private, er..."

"Lachlan, sir."

"Private Lachlan. You may return to your duties."

"Aye aye, sir." He saluted again and edged up past the two midshipmen, privately relieved that it had been Mister Quinn who'd come down. Obviously he had the manner of a protective older brother and had most likely defended Mister Hamilton before. Good. Though he had no idea what he'd have done if Mister Thurlow had appeared. Maybe it was just as well. Lachlan clattered up the ladder to the messdeck and realised, with a flicker of dismay, that the gun drill had ended. That meant the ship would be at Divisions within half a bell, and he'd already have been missed for musket drill. He was for it with Captain Collins for sure.

"You there! Marine!"

There was no mistaking that voice. Lachlan obediently halted, having gotten no farther than the top of the ladder. It was all he could do to suppress a groan and he noted that a couple of seamen nearby were pointedly pretending not to be watching. Mister Thurlow stomped toward him from the direction of the sick-berth, a dangerous expression on his round face.

"You are not on deck at drill. That is absence from your place of duty! Get up to the irons, you miserable useless lump!"

Nothing for it but to march himself up the ladder to the gundeck with Mister Thurlow in tow. A flogging was shortly in store. Lachlan had no love for being at the grating but he decided this was the one instance he was happy to suffer the cat. He reached the gundeck and headed straight aft, roundly ignoring the surprised glances from the gunner and his working party. His shoes thudded a regular cadence over the deck and served to warn Shaner of his approach.

"Another prisoner for Defaulters," Mister Thurlow said crisply, eying Shaner in a distinctly unfriendly fashion. "Lock him up!"

"I can't do, sir. Sergeant Devlin's got the keys, sir, not me."

"Fetch him, then!"

"I can't do, sir. That's leaving my post, sir."

Mister Thurlow's face flushed dark and he trembled at Shaner's effortless avoidance of responsibility. For a long moment, Lachlan thought sure the midshipman would order Shaner to find Sergeant Devlin, but in the end, all that came out was a slightly sputtering, "What foolery! You will see that this foul rascal does not escape! I will send for your sergeant!"

With that, the midshipman stormed up the ladder to the weatherdeck, managing to avoid flouncing but only just. Lachlan grinned and settled himself on the deck opposite Higgins. The others were staring at him in varying degrees of disbelief but he was content to hold his silence. He'd let them wonder at it all, for to tell the story would be to overstep his bounds. Well. He might tell the captain, when he was inevitably summoned to the gunroom to explain himself.

This was certainly a morning for unlikely happenings, wasn't it?