Dogwatches - Chapter 5

[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 | Four



"Marines! 'Shun!"

The detachment stamped its heels together in a single brisk thump and Sergeant Devlin faced about to stare woodenly toward the bow. The forenoon watch had just ended and the cry had gone up for All Hands to lay aft. There were men to be flogged. The Marines were paraded in their customary places, uncomfortably waiting for the three unfortunates to be led topside. Corporal McIntyre stood near the larboard quarterdeck stairs, his grip on his musket white-knuckled. Three Marines, instead of the two it had been originally. That stupid bastard Lachlan...

He had been summoned to Captain Collins' cabin only a few minutes before the parade, where an explanation for events was demanded. The captain was, understandably, furious. And, equally understandably, he wanted to know why the Marines in trouble were, yet again, from McIntyre's section. It was not something that had been easy to explain especially given that McIntyre had no good answers to offer. To say he was frustrated by the whole affair was to understate matters. He had gotten a rare roasting for not keeping better control over his Marines. It did not pass unnoticed that Collins had not objected to the order for punishment this time, either. That had made McIntyre even more apprehensive.

Of course, there was no helping that Higgins and Tate were up for a round dozen, but Lachlan was a different matter. On that count McIntyre knew he had been honestly slack. When the Scotsman had failed to turn out for musket drill, he'd made a halfheartered attempt to find him, but the chaos below deck owing to the guns being exercised had made the task impossible. He'd had no option but to report Lachlan absent from parade and let it be officially noted. There had been no time to bring the idiot up before Captain Collins when at last he'd turned up, for it had been Mister Thurlow to spot him first and, naturally, the midshipman had had Lachlan confined immediately.

The result of that was about to be played out before all of them. McIntyre risked a sidelong glance at his captain but there was no hint of expression on the Marine officer's face. Suddenly nervous, McIntyre fixed his gaze forward again and tried to squash the anxiety he could feel building inside him. He couldn't explain it, or even fully understand why he felt so, but something told him things were going to very badly wrong very soon.

That and all other thoughts were chased from his mind, however, when Captain Leaford cleared his throat and stepped closer to the quarterdeck rail after Higgins, Tate, and Lachlan had been brought up from below. Apparently he was going to address the crew before the flogging this time. Couldn't he ever make up his mind? Or, McIntyre amended, couldn't he spare them the speeches altogether? It was bad enough having to watch his mates get flogged without having to hear them shouted down for it as well.

"It seems that my previous warnings against misbehaviour have gone unheeded," the sea officer began. "Though I am not surprised to see it is the Marines who have proved unworthy of their station, yet again. Indiscipline, however, is indiscipline regardless of who possesses it, and it must be punished. You will learn the importance of proper behaviour, even if I must flog it into every last one of you!"

Unworthy of their station. This bastard wasn't helping. McIntyre had never heard of a ship's Marines being used in the way Leaford was using them. It was humiliating and threatened the natural order of things. Already, the impact of being eight men short was clear. Twelve, actually, including the Marines sent off with the prize. The lads were now basically in the same watch on, watch off rotation as the sailors, and musket drill had to be conducted when the starbowlins were on deck. The three of them would be put on light duties after this, which meant only half the Marine detachment was available for regular duties.

McIntyre suppressed a shiver. If this kept up, they'd be standing watch-and-watch and would very shortly become worthless for anything but sentry duty. Even that might become out of the question, he thought unhappily. It would only get better when those seamen were judged fit again. Maybe. There was every likelihood that Captain Leaford would decide he was better off having Marines as part of the working watch and not release them back to their proper duties. If only, the corporal reckoned, to prove that he could.

"Two of these men were caught fighting, as I am certain you all know," Leaford went on. "Aggression, lads, is not undesirable, but it is much better saved for the enemy, where it cannot harm and degrade good order and discipline. In only a few days, we will have ample opportunity to relieve our aggression upon the natural enemy, of that I can assure you." The sea officer paused for a moment to allow that little bit of information to sink in. Then he raised his voice and added, "The third man, however, was discovered absent from his appointed place of duty. Instead of being on deck for the Manual Exercise, he was skulking belowdecks, neither wearing his uniform nor being in possession of his kit. It is a case of wilful avoidance of rightful duty! Deliberate, unforgiveable negligence!"

Leaford paused to draw in a breath, his reddened face seeming to glow with anger. "It shall not be stood for. For the crimes thus described, two dozen lashes will be given to each man and a further half-dozen for that rascal who ducked his duty. Carry on, Mister Matheson!"

Christ alive, McIntyre thought. None of the three would be fit for duty when they reached South Carolina. How was Tate going to survive this, so soon after his last time at the grating? Was Captain Leaford trying to undercut his own Marines even more, since he clearly resented their existence aboard ship? It was a wonder more of them hadn't ended up at the grating before now, really. So far the seamen had come off worse, but not by very much.

The Irishman set his jaw and stared out over the rail at the sea, determined not to look at anything but the light ruffling waves. He hated floggings even in the best of circumstances, which was far from the case here. At least he could distract himself somewhat by passively watching that distant sail, which had been in sight since dawn. The other sail was, it seemed to him, drawing closer, even. Funny how something as important as another ship should be so quickly forgotten in the face of a flogging.

The swish and crack of the cat against Higgins' back was making McIntyre's ears ache. Two dozen for fighting. How many times had the lads gotten a little punchy with each other and not had anything come of it? More to the point, he thought suddenly, why hadn't Corporal Jones seen the trouble brewing and stopped it before it had devolved into a fight? From what McIntyre had heard, Jones had been right there on the messdeck too, within easy sight of Higgins and Tate.

And for that matter, where had Captain Collins been? He was even better than Sergeant Devlin at knowing the precise moment to make a timely - or untimely - appearance on the messdeck. It wasn't a heartening sign that their captain had not gotten wind somehow of what was happening until the trouble was over. Mister Thurlow had thoroughly enjoyed reporting the incident to Captain Leaford, McIntyre knew. He'd been on deck, checking the sentries, when the midshipman had come topside and so had heard almost every word of that particular conversation. It had increased his quiet resentment of the sea officer though of course there was no point in letting any of that show.

"Twenty-four!" Mister Simcoe called out in his customary bland voice. "Sentence is delivered, sir."

"Cut him down," Leaford intoned casually. "Next man up."

Higgins was helped below by two grim-faced seamen while Tate was led forward and secured to the grating. It was interesting, McIntyre thought, that there were seamen instead of Marines assigned to the punishment detail. Another of Leaford's subtle little attempts to slight the Marines? He wouldn't be surprised. The sea officer was undoubtedly clever and his dislike for the Marines gave him ample opportunity to show it. Why couldn't Captain Somersby have stayed with them?

"Don't shirk, Mister Colburn!" Leaford snapped abruptly.

The boatswain's mate didn't even blink, but raked his fingers through the tangled rope tails before drawing his arm back again to deliver another blow. Disgust simmered like hot bubbles in McIntyre's gut. There had been no reason for Leaford's admonition other than a nasty desire to ensure that Tate felt every inch of those hard leather strands. Colburn, like Rutland, was much too canny let himself be caught out for shirking but now that Leaford had addressed him, there was no hope for him to try employing imperceptible leniency.

Tate seemed to be holding up well enough despite the well-conditioned swings from Colburn. He certainly looked as though somebody had beaten his face half in, though. His back would be nothing pretty to look at either. McIntyre swallowed a sigh. He had once again come into Captain Collins' notice for apparent lack of discipline amongst his Marines. It was not a lack of discipline, he knew, but a state of tension created in no small part by the ship's captain. The lads were doing their best. It was inevitable for somebody's temper to flare and spark off somebody else's. Well. With any luck, the Marines would be sent ashore and thereby get away from Leaford, even if such a respite was only temporary.

Mister Simcoe's voice came again. "Twenty-four! Sentence is delivered, sir."

"Cut him down. Next man up!"

It was Lachlan's turn. The Scotsman was led forward and made to strip out of his shirt. Oddly enough, he seemed uncaring about his fate. It was hard to think why, for no man truly liked to be flogged, but McIntyre noted the coolness with which Lachlan spreadeagled himself against the grating and wondered. The barest flutter of movement, or was it a murmur of noise, from the midshipmen lined up between the officers and the Marines added a further piece to the intrigue. What in the devil was really behind Lachlan's unusual failure to turn out for drill? McIntyre resolved to find out, if he could.

"Lay it on, Mister Rutland!"

The iron-armed boatswain's mate drew the cat back and let it fall. McIntyre tried and failed to suppress a wince. Two and a half dozen was a stiff sentence for one offence. It was not anything like as bad as Leaford made it out to be, either, now he thought on it. Lachlan had always been attentive to his duty and in the three years he'd known the man, indeed been his corporal, he'd never known Lachlan to even be late for a parade. Something was going on and he needed to find out what.

After the first dozen, Mister Burns took over the cat. Of the three boatswain's mates, he was arguably the least severe. Not that this would be a relief to Lachlan. He had only a few seconds' respite before the cat slashed down against his back again, the fall of the strokes numbingly regular. Each stroke was accompanied as ever by the single rap of a drumstick, in the hand of a stone-faced Joe Reynolds. The Shepherd twins were, for once, paraded together with the rest of the detachment. That gave McIntyre the glimmer of an idea.

The cat changed hands again, coming once more into Mister Colburn's possession. The final six lashes were his to deliver and he made each one count. Lachlan all but hung from the grating, held in place only by the rope bindings around his wrists. There was the faintest hiccup of sound from the line of midshipmen, followed by a dull rustling thud as one of the boys sagged to the deck. McIntyre could not see who it was and he dared not turn his head in the slighest to look.

"Thirty!" Mister Simcoe barked. "Sentence is delivered, sir."

Finally. Unless Captain Leaford had any more words of glorious encouragement to pass along, the crew would be dismissed below. McIntyre hoped there weren't any. He had too many things to attend to and wanted to make a start on them, as soon as he could.

"Dismiss the hands below," Leaford was saying. "Major Collins. I will see you in my cabin."

Bloody hell, McIntyre thought glumly as Sergeant Devlin dismissed the Marines in his captain's stead. This just got better and better, didn't it? If the captain was for a roasting, there was no doubt but that he'd be in a temper the rest of the day, and could not be approached with anything delicate.

"Deck there! T' other ship's got our ensign!"

Every head tilted back to look skyward at the lookout's hail. The seaman was pointing out to starboard, where the other sail had been spotted. Having just descended from the quarterdeck, McIntyre turned to look and saw, to his surprise, that the other ship was a sloop and was only a few miles distant now. That was uncomfortably close, especially for a sloop. She did indeed have the familiar red ensign run up, but he knew from recent experience that a nation's flag couldn't be relied on as truth. The sloop was signalling, however, though of course the bright coloured flags meant nothing to him.

Mister Slater, the signals midshipman looked up from his telescope and cried, "It's the private signal, sir. And What ship?"

Simcoe glared at him. "Well! Give the recognition and then make our number, Mister Slater!"

Despite knowing he should clear off, McIntyre watched the flags dash up the halyard before turning his gaze toward the not-so-distant sloop. She didn't appear to waste any time with sending up flags in response to Cornwall's self-identification. There was a pause, then Slater reported, "Have despatches on board. Heave to - "

"Yes, thank you, Mister Slater," Captain Leaford interrupted. "Acknowledge that last signal, if you please. Mister Simcoe. Heave us to."

Lieutenant Simcoe touched his hat and leaned over the rail to shout out orders. It was time to go below. McIntyre ducked aside as seamen dashed toward the lee braces, urged on by the shrilling of the boatswain's call. He'd never truly understand the sailor's trade, for all he was forced to share in it.

Once safely below, he headed directly for the sick-berth. He had not forgotten his two punch-happy Marines. Doctor Finch should be done cleaning and oiling their backs by now. They were in for a proper blowing up and they'd get it, of that he was dead sure. Afterward, he intended to have a quiet word with Lachlan to try finding out what in the hell was going on. He didn't like having things happen with his Marines without his being aware. It had something to do with Mister Thurlow, of that much he was sure. Precious little did not these days, it seemed. McIntyre would learn the truth of the matter, one way or another, or he'd happily eat his shoulder knot.

~

"Private Lachlan, sir," George Swift called into the gunroom. It was a necessary courtesy, with the gunroom being the officers' sanctuary. There was a brief pause before Captain Collins sat back in his chair, striving to ignore the headache he could already feel building.

"Send him aft."

The regular thump of shoes over the deck heralded Lachlan's approach. If he was apprehensive or worried, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he stamped to attention one pace short of the gunroom table and saluted.

"Sent fur, sir."

Collins regarded the Marine for a moment, taking in the studious lack of expression and the stiff, careful way the man held himself. Having been so recently flogged, such a carriage was not terribly surprising. He was not sure what to make of the ever-so-slight air of suspicion he sensed, however. That in itself was sufficiently odd for him to ask, "You were belowdecks instead of with the detachment for drill, why?"

"Nae excuse, sir," was the prompt, toneless reply.

"I am not stupid, Lachlan, and I'll thank you not to act as if I am. I'm quite aware of your being below, for I have had reports from a number of others on the matter. The facts which were presented to me are thus. One: three sentries on the weatherdeck reported seeing you on the foc's'le alongside two seamen, paying an inordinate amount of interest in a squabble between two midshipmen. Two: you were then seen flying headlong down the forrard ladder shortly before the detachment paraded on deck for drill. Three: when you were placed under arrest by Mister Thurlow, you were coming up from the orlop, where the midshipmen's berth is. Four: the two midshipmen whose squabble so fascinated you were Mister Thurlow and Mister Hamilton."

Collins watched Lachlan's face closely and was sure he saw a distinct flicker of unease cross the Scotsman's bluff open features. He let his words sink in for a moment before pressing on. "With those facts in mind, I feel it eminently reasonable to conclude that you had gone in search of young Mister Hamilton, perhaps with no success, and on returning to the messdecks were promptly set upon and arrested by Mister Thurlow. Who, lest we overlook it, was involved with the initial incident. Would you care to take up the tale from here, Private, or shall I send for Mister Hamilton that he may do so himself?"

A silence followed that, during which Lachlan remained expressionless but was plainly wrestling with himself. It was a hard choice Collins had presented him with. Either way, however, the Marine was bound to come up on the losing half and he well knew it. The hesitation gave Collins cause to wonder at what had driven Lachlan below in such a rush, for it was uncommon indeed for the men to take any interest in the doings of officers, or officers-to-be. Would he indeed be obliged to pass the word for Hamilton? He hoped not.

"Aye, I was below, sir," answered Lachlan presently, his broad Scottish burr seeming to draw itself out a little more than usual. "I'd gan aiter Mister Hamilton, 'cos o' him ha' ran aff frae Mister Thurlow, sir. They had a set-tae, sir, wha' I saw o' it. Mister Hamilton was aa' afeart an' tha's nae reet. So aye, I gan below aiter him, an' by-the-by, I foun' him, poor wee bairn."

"May I remind you that you speak of a young gentleman and a midshipman of this ship?" Collins remarked mildly, not sure if he was pleased by Lachlan's honesty or dismayed by what he was describing.

The gentle rebuke did not seem to faze the Marine, who replied, "Aye, sir, mebbe he is tha', but he's also nae mair'n twelve year auld, an' this his firs' ship. A reet prime target, ye'd ha' tae admit yeself, sir."

"That, Private, is neither here nor there."

"Nae, sir," said Lachlan and promptly fell silent. Collins suppressed a sigh. He had not meant for the Marine to intrepret his remark as a reprimand but recognised it could only have been viewed as one.

"Go on. What did you do next?"

"I set doon an' spak t'him. Calm liek. Then Mister Quinn coome doon an' sent me awa aff."

Quinn? This was something new. "Indeed. It was that simple?"

"Aye, sir. Jes' so."

It was not and they both knew it. This time, Collins allowed himself to sigh and rose to his feet, the chair scraping roughly back over the deck. He deliberately ignored Lachlan, still standing stiffly to attention, as he made his way to the gunroom's door. "Pass the word for Lieutenant Quinn and Midshipman Hamilton to lay aft," he said to Swift, who nodded but once.

"Tha's nae wise, sir," Lachlan ventured boldly, before Collins was able to even close the door. "Fit aa' he an' me were spikkin' aboot is..." he fumbled for the right word but could only come up with a lame, "S'private b'ness, tha' is, sir."

This served only to deepen Collins' wariness though he was careful not to show it. "I would consider your situation as it appears to the casual observer," he told the Marine, firmly shutting the gunroom door. It would not do to let Swift hear more than a few words, if possible. "You pursued a midshipman to the orlop, where the pair of you remained for some minutes without interference, before a second midshipman came looking for you. How, Private, do you think an otherwise uninformed person would conclude, based upon that alone?"

A muscle in Lachlan's cheek twitched as he considered this and, visibly, came to the same conclusion his captain had. "I ain't - "

"I am quite aware of the truth of the matter, but it is vitally important to avoid any appearance that something untoward occurred," Collins interrupted. "Now. While I have suitable faith in the veracity of your account of events, I do need to hear what the two young gentlemen involved have to say."

He would not include Mister Thurlow in any respect, for he knew that to do so was to ensure Captain Leaford's inevitable involvement, which would have only one outcome. He resumed his seat at the table and, not for the first time, was glad for the gunroom's being empty but for them. This was not an affair he wished to have widely known. If that could ever be avoided, aboard ship.

Presently, Swift rapped smartly at the door and called in a low voice that the two desired officers had arrived. The boys entered a moment later, both holding their hats and looking unsure. The freckle-faced Mister Hamilton did so, that was. Collins noted the bright red mark on the boy's cheek and thought he was looking at the chief reason for Lachlan's intervention. The older Quinn, on the other hand, seemed cool and collected, as if he had expected this very meeting to occur.

"You wished to see us, sir?" Quinn asked in a level voice, making a crisp salute.

Collins noted that Hamilton was gazing intently at Lachlan, who was holding himself almost unnaturally rigid. What must the boy be thinking? "Yes. I shall come directly to it. What, exactly, transpired this forenoon, before Defaulters?"

The silence which followed that was nearly deafening. Hamilton would not speak, he guessed, and Quinn was regarding him with something close to distrust. "I could not say, in any conscience, sir," the acting lieutenant replied eventually.

"That mark upon Mister Hamilton's face suggests that perhaps you should," Collins returned. He was aware that he, as a Marine, had no authority to press these two as he was, and was prepared to do, but this was a matter than not only involved one of his men, but ran rather deeper than a simple case of messmates squabbling.

"I think not, sir."

"I intend no ill will, toward either of you. To be sure, I hardly need either of you to tell me anything, for I have already had enough of the story to guess at the truth of it - " he caught the quick, frightened, glance that Hamilton darted at Lachlan and added, "Private Lachlan told me no more than he had to do, Mister Hamilton, I can assure you. He is as guarded as Lieutenant Quinn about the whole affair."

"There is still nothing to say, sir, with all respect." On this point, Quinn was obviously prepared to be respectfully obstinate.

"Mister Hamilton has no tongue with which to speak for himself?" The Captain of Marines checked himself and softened his tone. "Look here, lads. There is not a soul aboard this ship who does not know of Mister Thurlow's nature. I am not one of your officers and will not punish either of you for any reason. I am, however, concerned by that mark on Mister Hamilton's cheek, and in turn I suspect it is Mister Thurlow who is responsible for its existence. That, Lieutenant, does not need your denial, for it is all but fact. Now. I have heard from Private Lachlan that he went below in search of you, Mister Hamilton, and all I require is confirmation of that. It is, I hope you understand, a question of clarity."

After a moment, he could tell that Quinn understood his meaning, which was a relief. He glanced at Lachlan, whose gaze was not far removed from boring a hole in the gunroom bulkhead. Hamilton, on the other hand, was much too innocent to comprehend. The youngster peered uncertainly at Collins and eventually managed to muster up the courage to speak. "It i-is my own business why I was in the hold, sur." He looked at Lachlan and seemed to make up his mind. "B-But aye, sur, Sam - er, Private Lachlan was there too."

Sam. Collins lifted an eyebrow but did not remark upon that unwise familiarity of address. Instead, he nodded. "Thank you, sir. That is all I needed to know. You are dismissed - "

"Sir." Quinn had, Collins noted, taken half a step forward, neatly placing himself between Collins and Hamilton. He too seemed to have made up his mind about something. "None of this will go before the captain, I trust. It is a matter that concerns the midshipmen's berth only,"

"I had not intended to make it anything more, sir," was Collins' answer. "If it had not involved one of my own men, I should not have concerned myself in the least. You will, however, be circumspect in your handling of the matter, I am sure. Particularly as you are now, however temporarily, a gunroom officer." He lifted a hand, stopping Quinn before the boy could speak. "I will request that Mister Hamilton remain behind a moment, as I believe he wishes a word with Private Lachlan."

Quinn hesitated, just long enough for Collins' suspicion to be confirmed. "Of course, sir. I shall be outside." With that, the lad departed, now taking pains to avoid looking in Lachlan's direction.

"Do not fear, Mister Hamilton," said Collins gently. "You deserve respite from that, if only for a few minutes. Stand easy, Lachlan. I suspect you represent a figure of comfort to Mister Hamilton just now."

For a long moment, neither of the two moved. Lachlan would be unwilling to move, being in the presence of two officers and Hamilton, Collins suspected, was loathe to overstep what he perceived to be his boundaries in front of anyone he was not certain of. Somehow, Lachlan had reached the lad, in an astonishingly short time, and that clearly counted for a lot.

Lachlan was the first to break the silence. "Are ye better, sir?" It was, as far as questions went, fairly mild but quite revealing of the Marine's grasp of the situation.

"Yes. Thank you." Hamilton hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Collins. "Wudd... er, may I..." the young midshipman broke off and crossed the short distance between him and Lachlan, and after the briefest of pauses stuck out his hand. "I wudd like us t'be friends, er, Private. I... am grateful to ye."

Lachlan's hand was larger than both of Hamilton's and, conscious of that, he was careful in returning the handshake. "I'd nae mind tha', sir. Near's it can be managed, o' course, wi' ye bein' an officer."

"Yes, of course. I am... er, I wish..." Hamilton faltered, his face flushing. He pulled his hand back and looked on the verge of fleeing until Lachlan put a light hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Isnae need fer fear, sir, the cap'n'll ferget aa' o' this soon's ye leaves. I' e'er ye needs anethin', sir, ye kens faar tae fin' me, i' Mister Quinn's nae aboot."

The midshipman bobbed his head, his eyes glistening, then in a moment he was gone, fleeing almost headlong out through the gunroom door. Both Marines watched him go, then Lachlan sighed and shook his head.

"A bad b'ness, tha'. Poor mite!"

Collins released a breath he had not realised he'd been holding. "I would ask that you be careful, Lachlan. He will be an officer one day and you are but a private Marine. Too, if Mister Thurlow has made him a target, it will take nothing at all for him to include you in his attentions."

"I've nae worry aboot tha', sir. He cannae dae worse than flog me. Nae, sir, 'tis yon bairn I'm fashed aboot. But... I've an idee, sir, if ye dinnae min' hearin'?" Lachlan paused, carefully rolling his shoulders and managing, just, to suppress a grimace.

"Of course, what is it?"

When Lachlan explained it, Collins could not help a smile.

~

In the evening cool, it was a relief to be on deck and not on duty. Symon Higgins wore his off-watch uniform, minus the cap and jacket, which happily helped him blend in with the sailors. If he was spotted by Sergeant Devlin or Captain Collins, he'd be blown up for it. It was worth the risk, though. The steady wind ruffled his shirt and felt good even through the swath of bandages on his torso. Twenty-four lashes for beating a little sense into Sam Tate. The price seemed a little steep but he didn't resent having to pay it.

He would be on sicklist for at least a week, which meant light duties and no grog until then. It was the 'light duties' that irritated him most. Rumour had it they would be joining with the squadron from New York in less than a week. There was likely to be action in some form after that, but his being sicklist meant he couldn't take part. At least not if anything happened away from the ship. Higgins leaned against the bulwark on the foc's'le and sighed. He'd join in a fight happening aboard ship in an instant, flayed back or no. It was being kept out of everything else that annoyed him.

"There you is. Your mates said you was up here."

Higgins glanced over his shoulder to see one of the sailors ambling over. He grinned. "Aye. They wuz all givin' I a 'eadache, lak."

"I b'lieve it." Cob Chase fished a lump of tobacco from his pocket and cut himself a piece. " 'Baccy?"

"Aye. Thanks."

There was a silence after both men folded their separate chunks of tobacco into their cheeks. Higgins didn't make a habit of chewing tobacco but he'd never turn down an offering of it either. That it came from a sailor in this instance didn't matter. Cob Chase was a decent fellow.

"I been hearin' things," Chase said presently. "Quiet-like. There's trouble in the offin' for you lot."

This was no great surprise to Higgins, considering the state of his back. "That zo?"

"Iss fay. One of the middies has been snoopin' around. Lookin' for anythin' he can pull lads up on. I seen him talkin' with Mister Prewett in the mornin' watch. One of the boys says they're after the Yanks aboard, Mister West an' Riggan an' them, but it seems they're out for you lads too. Just look what happened to Lachlan."

Even though Chase hadn't named the midshipman, Higgins knew exactly who the seaman was talking about. He frowned and leaned out over the bulwark to spit into the sea. "I knows the one 'ee's talkin' 'bout," he said quietly. Mister bloody Thurlow. This, too, was no great surprise.

Chase was nodding. "I heard too they're expectin' lads to run if we get orders to send lads ashore. The Yanks, 'specially. Dunno 'bout your lot, but..." he shrugged and spat out some tobacco juice over the side. "Least Kipp an' the others come off sicklist soon. The boys ain't happy 'bout havin' to share duties with bullocks, like."

"That's likewise," Higgins told him with a grin.

"Aye. So I've heard."

" 'Ee 'ears a lot." His moment of mirth was over. He glanced at Chase, who was pointedly looking at the water.

"I do. I ain't nobody's rat, mate, but s'only fair to warn you 'bout trouble. When you lot get in it, things get rough for us too."

This was true enough, though it wasn't like the Marines went out of their way to get themselves into trouble. "Bit 'ard to keep our noses clean when there's folks bein' clittersome," he pointed out.

"Mebbe so. That ain't my problem. Harky, fella. You bullocks ain't so bad, mostly, but whatever you're doin' to make the officers get to plottin' like they is, cheese-at. Do the rest of us a favour."

Higgins frowned. " 'Old on there. Bain't on'y us'ns gettin' used 'ard, mate. There's been more'a 'ee Tars seized up'n us'ns anyways."

"Ain't the point. It's you lot the cap'n's took a set 'gainst, an' now the middie's usin' that for an excuse. Him an' Prewett both. Who d'you think sent the little beggar below to your messdeck after Donahue got his back scratched?" Chase shook his head. "Just you mind yerselves. It's better fit for everybody."

There was nothing to say to that, or at least nothing courteous, so Higgins simply shrugged carefully. It was not for him to promise anything. Especially not since they were within days of joining the squadron heading for South Carolina. He'd heard that from Vaughan, who'd heard it from Hales, who'd been in the great cabin when Captain Leaford had read the newly-delivered despatches and given orders to the first luff afterward. Maybe that was why Chase was here now?

While he appreciated the warning, it didn't sit well with him to be told to exert control over the other Marines that he didn't have. Why wasn't Chase telling this to somebody like McIntyre, anyway? There wasn't much Higgins could do with this information on his own. "Why're 'ee dumpin' this all on I, then?" Might as well ask.

" 'Cause you won't go runnin' off housin' 'cause of it."

That remained to be seen, Higgins thought, and spat out some tobacco juice over the side. "Mebbe," he said noncommittally.

Chase's voice lost some of its calm. "Lemme tell you straight, Higgins. Things is mostly steady 'round the messes, but that ain't gonna last if you lot don't start usin' your brains. If you ain't gonna sort your mates out, an' keep 'em from bein' caught out by the officers, me an' the boys'll do it ourselves."

" 'Ee threatenin' I, Chase?"

"Nope. Just lettin' you know how it'll be, if you bullocks don't stop cabbin' over." The seaman swept the remnants of his tobacco from his cheek and flung it over the side. It was clear this conversation was over. Higgins bit back a retort and watched Chase amble away again. Wasn't this lovely, he thought sourly. As if it wasn't bad enough having to watch out for the captain and his officers. Now they had to worry about the seamen too.

With a sigh, he leaned against the bulwark and stared out at the pale ruffle of the waves. How in the world was he supposed to tell the lads to be wary of Mister Prewett and Midshipman Thurlow without making the officers suspicious? He wasn't a bloody corporal or anything, after all. More to the point, how could he do so without letting on how he knew those two were up to no good? This was a damned sticky situation and he resented the topman for dropping him into it.

"Thanks Chase," he muttered, and spat the unchewed tobacco out into the sea.

~

If there was anything more hated than a thief, it was an informer. In the world of the lower deck, informers were easily the most reviled men. Anyone who would betray the confidence of his mates was not worth being known. Often, he was reduced to the status of a common animal in the crew's regard. To be caught peaching on one's mates was a crime no one with any self-respect dared commit, yet Kit Davenport found himself wondering if he had not discovered just such a fellow, however accidentally.

He was on the orlop, helping Hales, the poor soul who served as the captain's steward, fetch out stores. Or, more accurately, he was doing the actual fetching while Hales saw to the rearranging of the captain's pantry. It was just as well. Hales had more than enough to contend with, given Captain Leaford's nature. Doing a little fetching and carrying to help the poor fellow out was the least Davenport could do. It was also how he had the singular misfortune to be near enough to the officers' stores to hear two voices in hushed conversation.

One of them belonged to Toad McCray, one of the ship's boys. Davenport recognised his youthful voice at once. What was he doing down here? Then he heard the distinctive sneering tone that could only belong to one man. Or almost-man. Mister Midshipman Thurlow. If anyone had the least reasonable cause to be in the officers' stores, it was that young gentleman. Davenport froze immediately, his hands gripped around a small canvas sack, ready to lift it. How they had not heard him rattling about in here was anyone's guess.

"Which of them was it, then, boy?" Mister Thurlow was demanding to know, his voice harsh. "You said you'd seen the both of them but who was it talking?"

Toad uttered a low, inaudible word, which was followed by, "I din't hear alla it, but it were Higgins, weren't it, damned bullock wot he is. Him an' Chase. Disgraceful is wot - "

"Higgins and Chase, you say?"

"So I did, sir," Toad answered, a trifle sulkily. "Chase's on'y doin' the right thing, isn't he, tryin' to keep the bullocks from - "

"Be silent. I have heard enough from you." There was a sound rather like the rustle of clothing "You will not repeat a word of this to anyone aboard, or I shall know of it. D'you understand?"

He could hear no reply to that and assumed Toad had simply nodded. Something close to a gasp came next, then there was the scuff of shoes over the deck. The midshipman was leaving. Davenport waited until the boy was gone, clattering carelessly up the ladder, before permitting himself to breathe again. It was impossible to tell if Toad had gone as well. Like all ship's boys, the youngster scorned the wearing of shoes. He couldn't wait for too long, however, or Hales would wonder what was keeping him.

Swallowing a sigh, Davenport hefted up the canvas sack and balanced it on one shoulder. Between this and the long, narrow box he picked up next, there was nothing else to bring up from this little room. Maybe for the best, that. He wasn't sure he wanted to be down here anymore, after what he'd just heard. Grabbing the lanthorn was not the easiest task with two full hands but Davenport was old hat at this game. Now to get out of here.

The door to the officers' stores was not completely closed. He noticed that immediately. Damn. Did that mean Toad was still in there? Davenport glanced over his shoulder at Henry Patterson, the sentry at the magazine, but he would not have seen anything. The officers' stores were just out of Patterson's direct line of sight. Shrugging, for there was nothing else to be done, Davenport crossed the short distance to the door and gave it a gentle nudge. Enough to make it swing slowly closed with a reassuring click. Then he was heading for the ladder, his awkward burden balanced precariously in his arms.

Up to the messdeck and up again to the gundeck, then aft. It was George Swift on sentry here and the two exchanged quick, companionable nods. Hardy would be waiting just inside the little pantry, no doubt in an increasing panic. Poor bastard. He had never been a calm-natured fellow but serving a captain like Leaford left him in a constant state of nerves. Using his elbow, Davenport nudged the pantry door open.

"Got your necessaries here, Barney," he said, allowing Hales to take the lanthorn from his first. That was the most dangerous item he carried. The cabin steward blew out the guttering candle and set the lanthorn aside, his hands trembling just the barest bit.

"Er, thank you. Here, I'll take that one - " Hales took the long box next and clutched at it like it contained bars of gold. "And you may leave that sack on the deck. That'll be all, er, thank you."

Davenport lifted an eyebrow. He was used to Hales' jitters but this seemed just a shade unusual, even for him. "Everythin' square, Barney?"

"Yes. Very. On your way, please. Quietly."

Ah. Right. Davenport nodded and stepped out again, aware that Leaford was probably in his cabin and could likely hear them. Poor Hales, indeed. It did not sit well with him that there was nothing to be done for the man. Sighing, Davenport headed back to the messdeck, his mind already moving on. There were other things he could take action to correct and the overheard conversation between Toad McCray and Mister Thurlow was, perhaps, one of them.

"Higgins!"

It took only a moment to spot the Somersetman, bare-backed as he was and therefore immediately noticeable. The white of the bandages on his midriff and over his shoulder made him stand out, even against the smattering of men in their off-watch rigs. Unsurprisingly, Higgins was sitting in company with George Durham and David Shaner, their attention devoted to a game of cards. At Davenport's hail, however, all three looked up and Higgins grimaced.

"Now what?"

Davenport's guard was immediately up, as were his suspicions. "Steady, mate. I'm just greetin' you." He paused, considering. "But I hear talk 'bout you. Somethin' about you and Chase conspirin' against the ship's boys."

A flicker of something that might be concern crossed Higgins' face, but whatever reply he might have made to that was forestalled by a scoff from Durham. "You what? Schemin' with a Tar, Higgins? I wudna have pegged ya for being so low!"

"Stow it, I bain't done nothin'," said Higgins, a trifle resentfully. "Dav's fulla tripe."

Now he knew what he had overheard possessed more than a grain of truth. Davenport settled onto the bench next to Shaner and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mess-table. "No, I'm not. Close up, you two. It ain't anythin' to do with ship's boys. Chase is makin' noise about havin' his mates stick their oars into our business. Now I dunno the particulars but that's the broad shape of it."

Shaner made to speak, but Durham beat him to it. "You're tellin' us a whacker."

"I ain't. Why don't you tell us what that fool of a topman said, Higgins?"

The three of them regarded Higgins expectantly, while the Somersetman simply looked uneasy. As well he might, if Davenport's suspicions were correct. "Et bain't what 'ee are thinkin'," Higgins said at length, his gaze fixed on the cards in his hand. "He's o' a mind us'ns needs better nursemaidin', z'awl."

"Give over," said Durham, again beating Shaner to a response. "If that's all, I'm a nipper."

"We'll have it out of somebody, Higgins, if it's not you," Shaner pointed out when Higgins' silence persisted. It was obvious their mate was reluctant to play out the role of a peacher, even on a matter as grave as this, but their collective health was potentially at stake. Higgins ought to be all too aware of that. Presently, it seemed that he surrendered to the inevitable, for with a careful upward roll of shoulders, he drew in a breath to speak.

"Et be lak this. Chase don't reckon us'ns c'n mind our own bi'ness, zo he an' his'n mates figger g'on to mind et fer us'ns. He telt I there be officers wantin' t'mell 'bout wi' us'ns. An' that when us'ns be in trouble, et makes things bad fer them too, 'an' would 'ee please to stoppet', he sez. Zeems he thinks I bain't gonna be clittersome t'him o'er et neither, bins'why o' him warnin' I er sommat." Higgins shook his head, any reservations now apparently gone. "He'd downarg I iffen I telt the cap'n, zo I bain't doin' et. But I dunno what better for doin', neither."

"Which officers did he say to watch out for?" Shaner wanted to know.

Higgins favoured him with a disbelieving look. " 'Ee don't - "

"No, I mean, did he actually give you any names?"

"On'y Mister Prewett's," was Higgins' answer. He frowned. "What dooee mean - "

Davenport felt his brow creasing. He had grasped Shaner's meaning as soon as the question was asked and he didn't like that line of thought. Mostly because of what it meant for the information Higgins had just shared with them. "He means, if Chase didn't say which midshipman to be wary of, we can't do a bleedin' thing. Except to be on the lookout for all of 'em."

"We all knowst which'n of 'em is it," Durham grunted.

"Aye, but what good is served by telling the captain about this if we haven't any names. It'd simply be a matter of us repeating what amounts to a rumour. The sailing master is a danger, of course, but he doesn't roam about the ship at will." Shaner sighed and laid his cards aside, his interest in the game apparently lost. "Look here, lads. I'm not saying it's best to do nothing, but - "

"And what's this?" Sergeant Devlin enquired, appearing at the mess-table, silent as a wraith. "You lads aren't gamblin', I hope!"

Durham was already sweeping the cards up into an untidy pile, even before Devlin finished speaking. "No, Sarn't."

"Good. Bein' on light duties don't mean these two can slack off. I'm sure there's some lads here what need their bayonets sharpenin'. Seems a job for you, Higgins. As for you, Shaner, I've got muskets need checkin' over for rust and bad flints. Jump yerself up forrard. There's a lad."

The two men worked themselves free of the mess-table's benches and hastened off in their separate directions. Sergeant Devlin waited for them to be suitably out of earshot before stepping in closer to the mess-table. "Now, I weren't hearin' what I thought I was. 'Cause if I was, there'll be two lads up on field punishment next bell. Understand?"

"Yes, Sarn't."

Davenport waited until the sergeant had gone, heading off forrard, before releasing a sharp breath. "How much of that did he hear, anyway?"

"I dunner think I wanna knowst," said Durham unhappily. "But we're not to do a thing, anyway, are we?"

"Nope. I'll not have my back opened up for as thin a reason as idle threats from a Tar. Here, you seen any of the drummers? I need a word with one of 'em."

Durham waved vaguely at three hammock spaces across the messdeck, having busied himself with shuffling his cards into order. If he had further concerns about how much Sergeant Devlin had heard of their conversation, he gave no sign. It was probably nothing to worry about anyway. Shrugging, Davenport stood up from the bench and wound his way across the messdeck. Neither Shepherd were anywhere in sight, but a sleepy-eyed Joe Reynolds peered up from where he'd been tucked against a ship's knee when Davenport nudged him with a shoe.

"Whatddayew want?" The drummer asked, blinking up at him.

"You know the carpenter's boy?" Best to cut straight to it. Happily, Reynolds nodded. But he would, really. The boys were all acquainted, if not friends outright. "I want an eye kept out on him. 'Specially when you or the Shepherds are on watch."

"Why for?"

Why, indeed. "Mister Thurlow's took to bullyin' him," Davenport replied. The lie came easily. Perhaps because the truth presented such a quandary. "I've a notion he's bullyin' all the boys, or as many of 'em as he can."

A cloud drifted across Reynolds' face and the drummer wrinkled his nose. "Has he. Well, that's not on, is it? You'll want the Shepherds on it too."

That was obviously not a question. Davenport nodded. He wasn't surprised by Reynolds' reaction. Nobody liked a bully aboard ship. Especially not one of Mister Thurlow's sort. "Be discreet with it. Bad enough that young gentleman's got an eye for pullin' us up without givin' him reasons to go after you young'ns too."

"Aye. I s'pose. Dunno where either of 'em are. There's one up on duty but the other is... sommers. I'll find him later."

"Thanks, mate." Davenport rose from his crouch and turned to head toward his mess. There were several things he needed to see to, now that these more pressing matters were setlted. Hopefully. He was under no illusions. Mister Thurlow would go on making trouble for the crew until he left the ship. Wishing the little bugger onto another crew was unfair but Davenport did so all the same. Of course, the ship's previous captain had not allowed such behaviour to go unchecked, never mind actively encouraged it.

"Hell and death," he muttered as he opened the sea-chest he shared with Mattie Barrett. Hopefully they'd soon be with the squadron from New York and could get down to some real work. Anything had to be better than this, after all. It would be if there was any justice!
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