Dogwatches - Chapter 6

[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 | Five



Having his back cleaned after a flogging was something he'd never enjoyed. The old dressings had to be peeled away before the vinegar wash could be applied, then the oil of olives was spread over the mass of open wounds before fresh dressings were laid. It was the agony of the vinegar wash that Sam Tate objected to the most, for who could like having it feel as if he was being flogged anew the instant that stinging liquid touched open skin? He clenched his teeth and bore the pain silently, determined that he'd give no sign of suffering. Not with Higgins and Lachlan present. It was no easy thing, for he had been flogged so recently before this last turn at the grating.

Doctor Finch had said little to any of them when they had presented themselves at the sick-berth when the morning watch ended. Other than to direct them, in turn, to strip out of their shirts and lie flat on the well-used tabletop, the sawbones had not spoken. The necessary implements for the work had already been laid out, which meant not a word was uttered throughout the treatments. Higgins had gone first, for his back was the least flayed. Then it was Tate's turn. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, and resented Higgins for being part of the reason for his being here again.

At least, he thought, the torture of the vinegar wash was over. The sawbones was patting Tate's back dry with a clean square of linen. The oil would be next, which would feel like heaven after the wash. He tried not to look at the crimson-splotched linen as it was laid aside, however. The ugly furrows opened up by the cat inevitably wept blood when they were treated. It did not hurt, next to everything else, but somehow the sight of his own blood made Tate's stomach turn.

Outside the sick-berth, shod feet scuffed over the deck and a voice called, "Doctor Finch. Got a young gennelman here for to see you."

"Send him in." Doctor Finch turned away from the table toward someone Tate could not see. "What have you been about, Mister Thurlow?"

"I suffered a fall. Sir."

That little cretin, thought Tate acidly. If he had fallen, it was a shame he had not broken his neck. Of course, that was wholly unlikely, for it would mean the ship had been done a favour, and that was too much to hope for.

"Indeed." The sawbones sounded unconvinced. "Sit you there, sir, and wait until I have finished with these men."

Thurlow appeared in Tate's line of sight, taking a seat in the only other chair in the sick-berth. A bruise marred the midshipman's cheek, near the jawline, and it looked as though he had the beginnings of a swollen lip. What an unfortunate fall it must have been. Tate had no sympathy in the least for the boy. Whatever happened to him was of his own doing.

"The captain will be wanting me by the next bell, sir."

At that, Doctor Finch gave a noncommittal grunt. "He shall wait, sir, for I am in the middle of tending these men's backs. Unless you would care to assist me and speed the process? No? Then be patient, sir."

If he could have done it without consequence, Tate would have smiled. He settled for blinking disinterestedly in response to the glare directed at him by Mister Thurlow. It would never happen that the midshipman did anything to honestly help anyone aboard. Except, of course, himself. Or the captain.

"Right. Up you get, Private," the sawbones said presently, having gently pressed the last dressing into place. Tate levered himself up into a sitting position and deliberately avoided looking in Mister Thurlow's direction. At Doctor Finch's direction, he lifted his arms up to shoulder height and held them there while the long linen bandage was wound around his torso and over his right shoulder.

"There. You may return again this time tomorrow for - " He was interrupted by the thud of more feet outside the sick-berth, which prompted a fleeting frown.

"Doctor Finch, sir." It was one of the other midshipmen. "If you please, sir..."

At the sawbones' word, three midshipmen shuffled in, two of them supporting a third. Tate's eyebrows arched, then drew together. Misters Murdoch and Morse held the signals midshipman, Slater, between them. The latter wore only a shirt, untucked over his breeches, and he moved gingerly, as if injured. The reason for that became clear when Mister Morse said, "He's just been caned, sir. Two dozen. For - " but the boy cut himself off when he realised Mister Thurlow was present.

"I see. Shift, Private, you are finished. Remove his breeches then lay him out here, gently now. This has just occurred, Mister Morse?"

The midshipman nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir. On the gundeck."

Tate drew in a sharp breath, unable to help it. Two dozen strokes from the boy's cane and on the gundeck, now, when gun drill was about to be held. And to not have had Doctor Finch present to oversee, as he was supposed to be. Mister Slater must have truly aroused Captain Leaford's anger in some way. The Marine risked a sidelong glance at Mister Thurlow and thought he understood.

"Indeed. Thank you, Mister Morse. You may go." Doctor Finch waited until the pair had gone before addressing Tate. "You may go as well, Private. Return again this time tomorrow."

"Aye aye, sir." Tate saluted, then retrieved his shirt and moved past Lachlan for the door.

Behind him, he heard Mister Thurlow's plaintive voice rising. "I came in before he did, sir. Why - "

"You are able to sit, sir, where he cannot," was Doctor Finch's curt response. Then Tate was on his way aft, unwilling to linger too long and catch the notice of a boatswain's mate or one of his own corporals. He hurried on to the messdeck. This was too good not to share with the lads!

"Mind where yer gooin'!" George Durham snapped irritably when Tate trod carelessly over Durham's outspread coat-tails.

"You lads ain't gonna berleve this," Tate said, roundly ignoring Durham's outburst. "Mister Thurlow's up ina sick-berth, got a lumpin' gert broose on his mug. He fell, he tells it, but the sapskull's had some sense put inter him!"

Colbert Smith looked up from the work of polishing his bayonet. "Tha's tellin' nonsense."

"I ain't!" Tate was in too cheerful a mood to be offended that he might not be believed. "Mister Slater's forrard too, account of him jist bein' caned. He's the one gone agen Thurlow. It's honey-faw, it is, sommody's fin'lly gie him a bit of pefillin'."

He had their full attention now. This was perhaps the best news any of them had heard in days. Grins were on most faces, excepting Smith's, who shook his head and said, "D'thee knaaw, he'll be in a reight vengeful temper, aye, an' it'd sarve thee nobbut reight if he wah to heer thee bein' so lewse in thy tawk."

"Psh, yer a awld woman," said Tate dismissively. "I'm not afeart of - "

"Is that you prattlin' on, Private Tate?" Sergeant Devlin cut in sharply, appearing from up forrard, a musket cradled in the crook of one elbow. "Thought it was. Right, you lot. Cut along topside, the bell's just gone, means you're all late for parade!"

The immediate bustle of movement that followed afforded Devlin the perfect opportunity to step closer to Tate and add in a much lowered voice, "Be wise about what you get to gossipin' about, Tate. There's worse things than a turn at the grating."

There was a definite threat in those words but Devlin moved off again before Tate could begin to formulate a protest. In only a moment, the messdeck was nearly empty of Marines, except for Higgins and himself. What in the hell had Devlin meant by that, anyway? He would not trouble himself to ask Higgins, of course, and couldn't ask Lachlan, for the Scotsman was too hard to understand. That meant he'd simply have to ponder it on his own.

But, he thought as he settled carefully down at his mess-table, it was more than enough that Mister bloody Thurlow had gotten a tiny measure of what he deserved.

~

"Cob Chase, sir," Tom Jenkins called into the gunroom, then stepped aside to let the nervous-looking seaman past. It was not long after the start of the afternoon watch and, instead of proceeding directly on deck, Captain Collins had remained in the gunroom, in company with the second luff, Lieutenant Alderbury. This was unusual enough for Jenkins to be on his guard. Although he was tucked safely out of sight at his post, he had a sinking feeling that there was something unpleasant in the offing.

It was unbecoming of him and he knew it, but all the same, Jenkins turned to the side just enough to better permit him to hear the conversation being held in the gunroom. Not that he could hear much, even through the thin door. The officers were taking care to keep their voices lowered. Not fair of them in the least! Jenkins wished he could ease the door open, even the slightest bit, but he'd be found out in an instant if he did.

He was obliged to straighten up and face properly forward when Corporal McIntyre tramped toward the ladder and then up it, but as soon as the Irishman was gone, Jenkins' attention was back on his eavesdropping. Something was doing and he knew it. Between Lachlan's skiving off from drill yesterday to the midshipmen fighting amongst themselves earlier that morning, and now Chase - one of the best seamen aboard - being summoned aft to speak to his division officer... there was certainly something brewing. Did it have to do with what George Swift had mentioned hearing during his sentry-go at this post yesterday?

"Sir!" Chase burst out from within. "I'm not - "

"Calm yourself, Chase," Mister Alderbury snapped.

Captain Collins' voice, less brusque and therefore less audible than the others, came next. "It is a request only, Chase. There is no obligation at all."

"So you say, sir, but that'd not be any comfort when I find meself gettin' between - "

"Should there be the merest attempt at interference, Chase, you are to send for me directly," Mister Alderbury said.

There was a pause and Jenkins strained his ears, thinking sure he was missing an important part of the conversation. Whatever was being discussed in there, he was damned intrigued. Maybe later he could wrest the whole tale from Hardy. The steward heard everything that went on in the gunroom, both good and bad.

Footsteps approached the door and Jenkins straightened up again, just barely in time. "Pass the word for Mister Hamilton to lay aft," Captain Collins said.

"Aye aye, sir," Jenkins replied and obediently called, "Mister Hamilton to the gunroom!"

He spotted movement on the Marines' part of the messdeck at once. It was Lachlan, rising a trifle unsteadily from his mess-table to head forrard. Now what was that about?. The gunroom door remained open for a long moment, with Collins standing squarely in the narrow opening, and Jenkins began to suspect he was in for a blowing up for listening in. The same thing had happened to Jonesy a couple of days ago, he knew.

"When the young gentleman arrives, Jenkins, I would be obliged if you allowed no visitors until our business is concluded."

"Aye aye, sir."

The door clicked shut, leaving Jenkins feeling even more curious. What the devil sort of 'business' required such a varied gathering? And to be ordered to turn all other comers away hinted at something decidedly untoward. How could he stop the first luff, say, from getting past?

"Mister Hamilton, as been sent fur," Lachlan said, arriving with the young midshipman in tow. Jenkins gave him a look of frank curiosity, but dutifully announced the boy's presence.

"Gaun, sir, there's nae need t'fear."

The midshipman nodded, once, and hurried into the gunroom. It was impossible not to notice the vaguely hand-shaped bruise on the boy's cheek, but Lachlan offered no explanation to Jenkins' questioning glance. Instead, the Scotsman returned to his mess-table and Jenkins decided that this was another angle that wanted investigating. Then he turned his attentions to listening to the snatches of conversation inside the gunroom. It was likely to prove much more informative anyway.

" - a simple enough responsibility, of course," Mister Alderbury was saying. "It is not unheard of, in the least."

"But why me, sir, and not a petty officer?" Chase wanted to know.

"A foremast hand with influence such as yours rivals the authority of a petty officer. Too, a petty officer's additional duties make it more difficult to adequately devote his time to this endeavour. Also... you were especially suggested, which I think counts a great deal in your favour."

There was a slight pause, then, "What is your opinion, Mister Hamilton?"

Whatever the reply to that was, Jenkins could not hear it, but it seemed to be in the positive, for Mister Alderbury continued. "Very well. If you are agreed as well, Chase, it is decided. I shall look for you both on deck next watch. That is all, Chase, you're dismissed. Thank you."

Jenkins straightened up and waited. A moment later, the gunroom door opened and a bewildered-looking Chase emerged. "What's all that 'bout, cully?" Jenkins asked in an undertone, as soon as the door closed.

"Devil if I know, for sure." Chase shook his head and set off forrard directly, seeming to desire nothing more than to get back amongst his mates. The answer did nothing to give him a better grasp of the situation. Damned sailor. He would almost certainly have to ask Hardy about it.

Heavy footfalls on the ladder signalled someone's approach and to Jenkins' dismay, it was none other than the ship's captain. There was an instant scramble on the messdeck as men dropped what they were doing to leap to their feet, but Leaford paid them no heed. He looked instead at Jenkins, who tried hard not to tremble.

"What goes on in there?"

"Sir." Jenkins cast frantically about for a suitable response but came up with nothing. He had no idea what was going on in the gunroom. "I don't - "

"Stand aside."

For an instant, Jenkins held his ground. "Sir. I was - "

Leaford's face clouded and with a single movement shoved Jenkins bodily aside. The captain was in the gunroom a heartbeat later, his voice ringing loudly with indignation. Now there was no difficulty at all in hearing what was being said.

"What is this, I find, but a meeting of sneaks and schemers!" The captain was thundering. "Who are you, sir, to summon any of my officers as it pleases you? I am quite at my limit with your antics, Major. Do you be silent when I am speaking. You, Mister Hamilton, will go with Lieutenant Alderbury to the gundeck and await the Master-at-Arms. Now, sir."

The gunroom door banged open and the second luff hurried out, followed by a white-faced Mister Hamilton. Of Captain Collins there was no sign, but it seemed that Leaford was not finished with him.

"Complete and utter disregard for the established hierarchy of this ship. I have never seen the like in all my years at sea. It is now plain to me that you are entirely too used to having your way. That stops immediately. You shall have no contact with this ship's officers unless it is here in the presence of Lieutenant Simcoe, or it is on deck. Is that clear?"

"Inescapably, sir," was Collins' terse response.

"If I get so much as a whisper of misconduct of this sort again, sir, be assured that I shall take much more drastic measures. You may remain here until the gunroom dines. Good day, sir."

Leaford stamped out of the gunroom, all but heaving the door off its hinges as he went. He was gone up the ladder in a trice. Jenkins stared directly ahead, his eyes wide, not quite sure what he'd just heard. What in the seven hells had the officers been up to, that it had gotten Leaford into such a fighting temper? From the gundeck, the Master-at-Arms was being shouted for and that could only mean one thing.

"Lachlan," Jenkins hissed, breaking discipline by waving at the Scotsman. "C'mere, mate. Quick-like!"

"Fit's ye on aboot?" His mate wanted to know, his movements stiff and careful as he approached.

"I dunno what's on wit' you an' Mister Hamilton, but he'll need you up forrard, in the sick-berth." A cry from the gundeck made Jenkins cringe. "Mebbe Chase too. Go on then, quick-like!"

Lachlan was gone forrard without a backward glance, having clued in on what had to be happening one deck above. Whether he got Chase on his way was none of Jenkins' concern. All that he knew for sure was he'd just witnessed one more episode in the steady decline of leadership aboard ship. There was another cry from the gundeck, this one more sharp, and Jenkins shivered. He had never liked the notion of boys being beaten, for any reason, and this instance of it made him feel sick.

"Jenkins," Corporal McIntyre said, coming hastily down the ladder. "Where's the cap'n?"

"Aft. Confined."

A cloud passed noticeably over the corporal's face and he went into the gunroom at once. Once again left none the wiser about the broader scope of events, Jenkins could only draw his own conclusions. None of them were good. Mister Hamilton was being caned for no reason, Captain Collins was temporarily confined to the gunroom, some scheme involving Chase and Mister Hamilton had been hatched, and now McIntyre was in a fit about something. What else could possibly go wrong in the space of a single watch?

"Jenkins!" It was Sergeant Devlin this time. "No sleepin' on duty. I'll have you on field punishment, I catch you again!"

Well, he thought unhappily, there was certainly at least one more negative to add to that list!

~

From where he sat, David Shaner had a commanding view of the messdeck and its familiar crush of mess tables, sea-chests, and hammocks. The bulk of the detachment was at work cleaning muskets after the afternoon's firing, with one or two engaged in sharpening knives and bayonets. He had been on sentry-go at the spirit room while drill had been held and was happily exempt from the chore of cleaning his firelock. For that day, anyway. Tomorrow was another matter.

There was an uncomfortable mood about the messdeck, though. He had sensed it building earlier in the day, when Captain Leaford had gone storming into the gunroom, but now it seemed to have gathered into something almost tangible. Word had spread of Mister Hamilton's caning, hard on the heels of news about Mister Slater having suffered a similar beating. It had not helped any that their own officer had been confined to the gunroom until the watches changed. Of all of that, Shaner felt that Mister Hamilton's treatment was the least-liked. What could such a timid child possibly have done to merit that manner of punishment?

Shaner found himself frowning down at the paper before him. He had intended to write a note home, but all his thoughts were in disarray. It was no help that he was still learning his letters. Concentration was needed here yet he could not muster it. Anyway, how could he even begin to describe how things had deteriorated aboard ship? He had the vocabulary to manage the task well enough in speech, but the words he'd use for that, he had no notion how to put to paper. It frustrated him greatly. With a quiet curse, he shoved the paper with the two lines of hesitant writing on it away. The unhappiness in the air was getting to him as well, it seemed.

He had to get out of here. It was the first dogwatch, which meant it was safe to venture topside without fear of censure. Shaner grabbed his off-watch cap and fitted it carefully into his head before making his way through the untidy maze of men and disassembled muskets toward the aft ladder. No one gave him so much as a glance as he passed, which was just as well. It seemed to him that conversation was considered taboo, for hardly a sound of chatter could be heard. That in itself was a mark of the downturn in the detachment's mood.

On the foc's'le, the shantyman was scraping a melancholy tune from his fiddle, his audience of seamen sitting in small groups about the deck. Chatter seemed to be sparse here too. Ordinarily, the dogwatches were known for lighthearted skylarking but there was no trace of that on this day. Shaner pulled his grey jacket a little tighter about him, unsure where the sudden feeling of cold came from. He moved past the boat tier, nodding at a couple of waisters he knew, and passed otherwiise unnoticed to the foc's'le. It seemed the mood on deck was little different from that on the messdeck, with only the advantage of a fresh breeze to make it more desireable.

"Hey, Davey," a young voice said, cutting carelessly into his thoughts. "Yer a sly-boots, why's the lads all glum an' down? S'no fun, izzit?"

Shaner glanced down. His interrogator was the dirty-faced Fingers, who was as tousled and unkempt as ever. "Aye, it's no fun, but fun tends to be reserved for happy ships, Fingers," he answered. Somehow, putting the reality into words made it seem that much more unpleasant.

Fingers looked confused and clambered up onto the bowchaser, apparently deeming that a more comfortable perch than the deck planks. "But ain't we a happy ship? We always wuz afore, there wuz always a laugh bein' had an' all. An' a proper skylarkin' too."

Poor nipper. He couldn't understand the way things had changed. His world-view was simply not broad enough to grasp it. "I'd say we're not, at least not as we used to be. A captain sets the mood for his ship, you know, and... well, not every captain is the same."

"Aye but... why can't we skylark, even? He ain't telled us we can't do, he ain't!"

"No, he's not said we can't," Shaner agreed, a trifle hesitantly. He looked around at the scattered clusters of men on the foc's'le and sighed. "It's more a matter of the lads not wanting to skylark, I think."

Fingers wrinkled his nose. "That's foolery, that is. Whyn't anyone wanna skylark? Everyone's gone all starched onna barky, Davey. It ain't right!"

"It isn't, Fingers my lad, but that's the shape of things, I'm afraid."

The boy's expression dimmed. What had he hoped for? Shaner had little power to spark up the crew, certainly not more than Fingers himself did. In reality he had less, really, being as he was a Marine. He disliked not having a suitable answer for the lad but there were none to hand. It was telling that even Fingers was feeling the strain, for the boy was one of the most spirited souls aboard.

With a sigh, Shaner levered himself up onto the bowchaser's fat barrel and braced the heels of his shoes against the top edge of the gun carriage. "Have you tried asking the lads to have a dance? Or asking Buckley if he'll play something lively?"

"No-o," Fingers admitted. He gazed up at Shaner hopefully. "D'ya fink he will?"

"Can't hurt to try, can it? Go on. The lads need a proper skylarking."

That was enough for Fingers, who was unable to stay gloomy for long. The lad was off like a shot, nearly bowling over the armourer's mate in his eagerness. Shaner chuckled quietly and leaned back as much as he dared over the squat gun's barrel, propping himself up with outspread palms. The joyless mood of the crew aside, it was a fair night. Scarcely a cloud to be seen, which afforded the stars an unchallenged dominance of the dark velvet sky. Some gleamed more brightly than others and Shaner tested himself by searching for those groups of stars he knew to form constellations.

Such was his intent study of the sky that he did not notice, at first, that the slightly-scratchy notes of Buckley's fiddle had become more energetic. The tune was The Jolly Beggarman, he realised, and he grinned. Fingers could persuade any man aboard to do as he wanted, truly enough. A couple seamen stirred, roused to life by the music. For an opening piece, this was a prime one, and the two seamen set themselves to dancing after a noticeable hesitation. Shaner could understand their wariness but even he, comfortably seated as he was, felt the urge to join them.

He remained where he was, however, for the tune ended. There was a pause, during which Buckley conferred with Dan Wiles, one of the quartermaster's mates. Then Wiles shambled over to where Shaner was sitting, an overly casual approach that had Shaner thinking he knew what was coming. He was already shaking his head before Wiles had the chance to speak but he couldn't help a grin. Whatever protests he made were half-hearted at best.

"Master Shantyman kindly requests your attendance, sir, for he cannot undertake his next chosen piece without your assistance."

Shaner's grin broadened. He knew this game. It had been played out more than once before. Behind Wiles, Buckley was fairly beaming. Around the foc's'le, seamen and ship's boys, with a sprinkling of Marines now amongst them, were watching Shaner expectantly. They too knew the game and were waiting for him to play out his role.

"Aye, does he, now? Well. I should not like to let such a fine fellow down," Shaner replied, not offended in the least that Wiles had mimicked his own speech. This too was part of the game. "What is the chosen piece, pray?"

"Why," said Wiles, as if he had not expected the question, "it is The Bedlam Boys, of course!"

This served to give Shaner pause and he glanced aft, where the majority of the ship's officers were gathered, largely pretending to ignore the men on the foc's'le. Of all the songs to be asked to perform! If there was anything more likely to get him flogged... to hell with it, he thought abruptly. His father had always told him never to do anything halfway. The crew deserved a skylark and by God they would get one. He grinned and shifted so he could stand upright on the bowchaser's sturdy carriage.

"I should be glad to accompany Master Shantyman's fiddle," he declared.

The lads grinned and many jostled each other to get closer to Shaner's makeshift stage. It was going to be a performance which would likely see him on Defaulters tomorrow but in that moment, he hardly cared. Shaner doffed his cap and cleared his throat. It went without saying he'd make this as lively a rendition as he could, for this was a song that all but demanded it. A glance at Buckley showed that the shantyman was ready, the fiddle tucked comfortably under his chin and the bow already at the strings. Shaner nodded to signal his own readiness and Buckley began to play.

"For to see my Tom of Bedlam, ten thousand miles I'd travel
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes, to save her shoes from gravel.

Still I sing, bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Aye, Bedlam boys are bonny.
For they all go bare and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

Oh! I went down to Satan's kitchen, for to beg me food one morning,
There I got souls piping hot, all on the spit a-turning.

Still I sing, bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Aye, Bedlam boys are bonny.
For they all go bare and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money."

This was an excellent song for stirring up spirits, Shaner thought as he paused for no more than a heartbeat to draw in a breath. Already he could see the lads responding, with some stamping their feet in time with Buckley's fiddle, others clapping, and the same two seamen dancing a hornpipe. Corporal McIntyre was amongst the men who were watching, a broad smile creasing his round Irish face. Shaner himself was punctuating each verse with a wave of the hand or a suitable expression, his tenor voice rising and falling from word to word, unconsciously employing his slim actor's instincts. It was all a matter of timing. The right inflection on the right word, the right gesture at the right time. He was enjoying himself a good deal more than he'd first thought he might.

"There I picked up a cauldron, where boiled ten thousand harlots
Though full of flame I drank the same, to the health of all such varlets.

Still I sing, bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Aye, Bedlam boys are bonny.
For they all go bare and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

Oh! My staff has murdered giants, my bag a long knife carries
For to cut mince pies from children's thighs, with which to feed the fairies.

Still I sing, bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Aye, Bedlam boys are bonny.
For they all go bare and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

Spirits white as lightning, shall on my travels guide me
The moon would quake and the stars would shake, whene'er they espied me.

Still I sing, bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Aye, Bedlam boys are - "

A sudden stilling amongst the men and boys watching, enjoying, the spectacle caused Buckley to falter, the steady notes from his fiddle ceasing with a harsh squeak. Shaner's voice trailed off and he looked aft, his left hand with his off-watch cap clutched in it held at shoulder height before him, frozen in mid-gesture. It was an officer who had come forrard, his gold-fringed epaulets glinting dully in the lanthorn light.

"What," Captain Leaford asked, his voice a dangerous growl, "is the meaning of this?"

Silence was his answer, with none of the men daring to meet his eyes. It hardly mattered. The captain's glower was fixed on Shaner, who, by virtue of his perch on the bowchaser, was the most obvious man on the foc's'le.

"You. Marine. Answer me."

Shaner straightened to attention as best he could on the bowchaser's carriage. "Sir. It's nothing more than a skylark, sir."

"This is a riotous assembly, is what it is! I shall not have such displays in this ship. This gathering will disperse immediately and will not reconvene. Master-at-Arms! Place that man under arrest. He shall receive a taste of the cat for his inflammatory performance. Mister Matheson! Disperse these men. Only the duty watch will remain on deck!"

Barely suppressing a scowl, Shaner hopped down from the gun carriage. This had been worth the sentence the captain had just imposed, though there would not be another skylarking any time soon. Not if this was the response the crew could expect! Mister West shoved his way through the mad scramble of men seeking to escape the starters wielded by the boatswain and his three mates. There was an apologetic look briefly on the petty officer's face when he got near enough to Shaner to take a firm hold of the Marine's arm.

"Weren't a bad show, mate," the Master-at-Arms muttered, so only Shaner could hear.

To that, he could only offer a quick, wry grin. For a few minutes, the lads had been able to enjoy themselves. That alone made the prospect of tomorrow's flogging bearable. On the way aft, Shaner noticed Captain Collins watching from the quarterdeck rail, his expression grave. He saluted in the sailor's fashion, being unable to render a proper courtesy, but there was no acknowledgement from his officer. There were any number of reasons for that. None of them were good. Feeling suddenly bereft, Shaner allowed himself to be led below to the gundeck, where the leg-irons awaited him. It was going to be a long night.

~

Nine days had passed since the frigate had left Antigua. The warmth of the West Indies had faded and it seemed to Alfred Hardy that the ship's happiness had largely gone as well. The interrupted skylarking two days ago was the only exception. An all-too-brief exception at that. Shaner had received eighteen lashes for it and the mood of the crew hardened a little more. There had been a definite negative response from Captain Collins, who had yet again summoned Corporal McIntyre to his cabin. Trouble was certainly in the offing for the Irishman if Hardy was any judge.

Of course, their officer had gotten yet another roasting from Captain Leaford, so it was not so great a surprise that the venting of spleens had gone down the line. Hardy could see no wrongdoing from anyone, however. It had only been a song, meant to liven up spirits. But maybe that was the point. Leaford had taken a set against anything that smacked of honest good cheer. What other conclusion was there to make? Simply another way in which he was asserting his complete authority over every officer, man, and boy aboard.

Hardy paused to listen to the hushed murmur of conversation from the gunroom and amended that thought. There was one exception and that was Doctor Finch. There were three more seamen on sicklist, having been flogged yesterday for drunkenness. An attempt had been made by Leaford to order those men back to duty that very morning but the sawbones had resisted. Successfully. To every man's surprise, the ship's captain had let the matter lie, though anyone could see it displeased him greatly to be put off.

It was hard to say what made the sawbones' word law, even to the captain, but Hardy was not about to question it. In his view, it was very much a good thing. Anything that spared those poor beggars even more suffering. It was bad enough having men up for Defaulters every day without turning those same men back to duty by the dogwatches. As if, he thought sourly, it was not bad enough that Mister Thurlow had taken complete advantage of having two of his fellows on light duties as well. His terrorising of the crew had reached a new height of intensity. Indeed, the midshimpan had been the one to warn Leaford of the skylarking. That much Hardy remembered plainly.

The steward schooled his features into impassivity and elbowed the cabin door open. His captain's cabin was perhaps the only place aboard ship where he could be expressive without reserve, but even this haven was becoming unsafe. Collins was increasingly swift in interrupting anything that wasn't directly related to Hardy's duties. The tension was getting to him, too. Like it was getting to everyone. He did not glance toward the gunroom table, where Lieutenant Simcoe sat in conference with the sailing master, and made his way out. Not all of that tension came from Captain Leaford or his pet midshipman, either.

Out on the messdeck, the detachment was about their usual business. He noted that Shaner was hunched over something on his mess table, a stub of pencil in his hand. Tom Carter sat with him, a thoughtful look on his face. Letter-writing, Hardy guessed. Shaner could write, just, and they all knew Carter needed to send letters home as often as he could, whatever it took. Poor sod. Hardy stepped over the sprawled legs of George Swift, who was diligently cleaning his musket on the deck, and nodded dutifully at Corporal Jones. The Welshman was sitting atop somebody's sea-chest, his off-watch trousers in one hand and a threaded needle in the other. Reattaching a button, by the look of it.

"Hardy!"

The low-voiced greeting came from Mattie Barrett, who was having his hands carefully tended to by Kit Davenport at the mess-table just behind where Jones was sitting. Hardy made his way over, taking care to wind his way around the outspread coat which covered a lightly-snoring Nick Frazier. Davenport budged up to make room for Hardy to sit, and the steward was able to look more closely at Barrett's hands. They looked raw and painful. No doubt a result of the harsh use that came from being part of the working crew.

Hardy shook his head slightly, carefully laying out Captain Collins' swordbelt on the cluttered table. "What's that you done to yer hands then, Mattie? Ain't no good if y'can't handle a musket."

Barrett managed a slightly-faltering grin. "Ain't bad's awl that. 'Olystonin' this mornin' done 'em in. Josh Button says - ow, Dav, easy!"

"Quit flinchin', then," Davenport chided, dabbing at a cut on Barrett's palm with his rag. "You'll have leather for skin 'fore long, if this keeps up."

"Aye, well... s'pose that ain't so bad. Anyways, have ya heerd, Hardy? Kipp an' his mates tried gettin' off sicklist, but the sawbones tole 'em no. Tole 'em they'd bide another few days yet 'fore he'd even think on it! I ain't e'er heerd the lak."

Was that true? Probably. Doctor Finch had an unyielding manner of authority all his own. Hardy shook his head as he leaned over to fish out a sponge from his sea-chest. "I can believe it. The sawbones ain't like most others. He puts proper stock in makin' sure a crew's got their health looked after, he does. Here, Springfield, give us that bucket there? Share the pipeclay, like."

With a scowl, Springfield passed the tin bucket over. Hardy took it, nodding, and settled down to the work of pipeclaying the swordbelt. It never took much to get Springfield irritated. Asking him to share his bucket of pipeclay meant shifting so he could continue to use it too. The lazy sod. Not that Hardy was of any mind to care. Their officer's kit took priority, after all.

"I seen that, sorta," Barrett said. "Least he seems to be knowin' his b'ness well enough. Dunno's it's nacheral, though. Tellin' a lad he can't go on back to warkin' if he reckons he can?"

Davenport dipped his rag into the mug that smelled like it was filled with grog and chuckled. "Aye, that's Finch. He's had some good trainin', Mattie. I've heard he learned at some big anatomy school in London. Knows what a lad looks like inside and out both. He can slice you open, fiddle about in your innards, then sew you up again, good's new."

"Aye. He patched Quintin up real nice when he near to got carved in two, din't he? Takes a special bit of know-'ow, that does. Dunno's it helped Quintin's temper any, o' course." Hardy removed the crossbelt plate and set it aside before going to work applying a fresh coat of pipeclay to the belt itself. "I heard from Graves that the sawbones worked at the Haslar hospital fer a bit, 'fore he went to sea."

"He done that, really?"

"S'what I were told. Makes sense, though, don't it? Sorta like what we does, I s'pose. Learnin' our trade ashore 'fore bein' sent to a ship."

Springfield glanced up briefly. "Think his father's some sorta physician in Plymouth, even. I heard one of the middies goin' on about it when the sawbones first joined. Reckon it's fair to say he's no diff'rent. Anatomy schools an' workin' at Haslar an' all. Takes sommat special to do that, don't it?"

"Maybe that's why even the cap'n don't dis'gree with him," Davenport ventured thoughtfully. " 'Cause of the sawbones bein' more than just a common surgeon."

"Could be. Dunno why-for he'd do it, else. Flamin' bastard that he is. Y'know, I half think he were sent here 'cause of sommat evil he done - "

"Bleedin' hell, Dav!" Barrett burst out, jerking his hand back. "I wanna be keepin' me hand, a'right?"

There were a couple chuckles as Davenport grabbed at Barrett's wrist. "Hold still then, you daft thing! If you wasn't wincin' so, it'd not hurt so bad!"

"Me hand ain't brass, lak," Barrett countered sulkily, submitting to the renewed cleaning of his palm. "Don't gotta be polishin' it cleen away."

"Mebbe if it wasn't covered all over with tar an' whatever else, I'd not have to. Now hold still, it's nearly done."

Hardy grinned and dipped his sponge back into the bucket of pipeclay. With things becoming unhealthily tense around the ship, it was a relief to see there was still some humour to be had. Even if it was due in part to Captain Leaford's rough way of running the ship. He wondered where Davenport had learned to clean out wounds like that, then thought it must have been something the sawbones had shown him. Dav was a clever lad anyway so it was no surprise he'd learn something like that.

Near the ladder came the hiss of "Officer!" just a few seconds before buckled shoes and crisp white stockings appeared on the ladder itself. The warning came only soon enough to let the Marines get hurriedly to their feet, their various pieces of work abruptly abandoned. Hardy suppressed a groan when he realised it was Midshipman Thurlow who'd come down the ladder. The boy was glaring belligerently around the messdeck, as if looking for something he could pull any of them up for. Again. The worthless, hateful little...

"What is that?" The midshipman's gaze had fixed on the table at which Mattie Barrett had been having his tattered hands cleaned. The mug Davenport was using to hold the grog-wash sat there in easy view. Oh damn.

"What is what, sir?" Davenport asked blandly.

Mister Thurlow pushed his way toward them, his face set in a scowl. "Do not pretend to be innocent! That, there." He snatched up the mug and sniffed its contents. "Grog! It is well past when Up Spirits is piped, Private. You are not allowed any grog unless it is freshly issued. Are you drunk?"

"No sir. It's for Mattie's hands, sir."

"What, pray, is wrong with them?"

Davenport held his ground. "They're a bit rough, sir. 'Cause of him bein' part of the afterguard."

"Oh. Is that all?" The midshipman's sneer made Hardy wish he could box the lad's ears and get away with it. "It is high time you Marines got a taste of what it means to be part of the ship. Let's see your precious injured hands, Private."

There was no disobeying that, though Barrett looked for an instant like he was about to. He lifted his hands and turned them palm out for Mister Thurlow's inspection. The midshipman barely glanced at the mostly-cleaned cuts and reddened flesh before making a noise of disgust.

"Is that all? I should have thought there was real damage done. Clearly this mug was kept for other purposes. Come here. I do believe I smell the odour of drink on your breath."

"S'there a problem here, sir?" Corporal McIntyre asked, approaching from up forrard, through the seamen's messdeck. There were a number of curious off-watch sailors staring aft at them too. Cob Chase was amongst them, Hardy noted, and fought down a sigh. As if things weren't bad enough!

The midshipman stopped short of grabbing hold of Davenport's shirt front to drag him close and instead turned his disapproving scowl to McIntyre. "These men are drunk, Corporal. I discovered them in possession of hoarded grog. It is good you came along, for they both need to be put under arrest."

"I dunno's that's really grog, sir," replied McIntyre. "Least'ways it ain't fit for drinkin'. Not if it's got blood in it."

"What?"

"Take a look at the mug, sir. There's blood inside of it. Sure that's nothin' any of these lads would drink, 'less they was addled."

Something like horror flashed across the midshipman's face before he got control of himself. "How... vile," he spat. "Though I would hardly put even that past any of you. It is hardly an excuse to have grog outside of the daily issue. That is an offence, you know. Possession of forbidden spirits and rendering one's self unfit for duty. I shall thank you, Corporal, to place these men under arrest. That will be all."

This was madness. Hardy risked a glance aft and wished Captain Collins would appear. He was the only one who could stop this, but the captain was nowhere to be seen. Damn it. Being arrested for any reason meant flogging. Even if that reason was complete rubbish. There was nothing for McIntyre to do about it, either, or he would be in trouble himself.

"Aye aye, sir," the corporal said and nodded at Barrett and Davenport. "Shift along, lads. Wiles. You're for sentry up there."

Shoes scuffed over the deck as the three Marines headed for the aft ladder. McIntyre remained where he was, his gaze on Mister Thurlow. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Of course it is," the midshipman snapped. "For now!"

McIntyre saluted and moved away toward the ladder after the others. His departure prompted Mister Thurlow to sneer at the nearest Marines. He still held the horn mug in his hand and, with a quick twist of his wrist, he dumped the mug's contents squarely over Mattie Barrett's discarded coat. There was a collective hiss of breath from the watching seamen, which caught Mister Thurlow's attention immediately. He tossed the mug carelessly aside and stormed forrard at once, having found a new outlet for his hatefulness.

"Flamin' jumped-up little... " Albert Ware muttered, grabbing his spare shirt and using it to soak up the spilled grog from Barrett's coat. It was vital to get as much of the liquid out as possible before it could stain the wool. There were grumbles of agreement as the others relaxed from their rigid stances and reluctantly went back to work on their various pieces of kit. They were all too aware that what they'd just witnessed was becoming a commonplace occurrence. Previously minor and ignorable transgressions were now punished with the same readiness as more serious offences.

"Somebody'll swing fer that bugger yet," Willie Harrison remarked feelingly, to nobody in particular.

"Here, Billy," Hardy said abruptly. "Hang this up some'rs for me."

Springfield started to protest as the half-finished swordbelt was thrust at him, but Hardy was already heading aft to the gunroom. The captain needed to know about this before it got any further. He doubted there was any hope for Barrett and Davenport avoiding the grating, but he had to try. There had been more than enough of this nonsense lately.