Dogwatches - Chapter 7

[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 | Six


"I hardly care what their intentions where, Major," Captain Leaford snapped. "The fact remains they were in possession of hoarded drink and that, sir, is a crime on my ship!"

"With respect, sir, I wonder what isn't a crime on this ship," Collins retorted, perfectly aware that he was speaking recklessly but not caring. He had endured enough of the sea officer's harangue for this meeting and his temper was coming dangerously close to boiling over. "Are we as officers to punish the men when they are doing nothing more improper than using a mug of hoarded grog to tend to their own wounds?"

The captain stared at him, red-faced. "Impertinent nonsense! I do not care if they were toasting the King! The time for having spirits is when Up Spirits is piped, and that is all! The shameless temerity of it... no surprise, of course, that it is your damned Marines who find it so impossible to behave properly. We are mere days from certain action and you cannot even prevent men from sneaking grog. Hold your tongue, sir, when I am speaking!"

With an effort, Collins kept his silence. He wanted nothing more than to match Leaford insult for insult, but no good at all could come of that. Not that there was much good that could come from anything to do with Leaford. The man was like a festering wound, spreading infection to the rest of the unwounded body. Before long, he wouldn't be surprised if the whole ship began to truly suffer because of the captain.

"From now until I decide otherwise, none of the Marines shall receive the regular grog issue," the sea officer went on, still wrapped tightly up in his indignation. "Woe betide any one of those fools who is discovered to be drunk now!"

For a long moment, Collins simply stared. Stop grog for all the Marines? Had the captain gone out of his mind? There was no better way to create widespread resentment than this, certainly. "I am not sure that is - "

"Who are you to question me, sir?" Leaford cried, all but quivering with restless fury. "That is a habit of yours, it seems! I know of course about your remarks to Lieutenant Simcoe - who, may I remind you, is your equal in rank. I am quite finished with tolerating your attempts to undermine my command of this ship. From now on, I shall be solely responsible for the awarding of punishment for the Marines. Seeing to it that they maintain the appropriate standard of drill is all that will be required of you. It will, I trust, be more within your ability to manage than anything else!"

Collins bristled and opened his mouth to retort. This was simply too much! But Leaford jabbed a finger at him and interrupted with, "Rest assured, Major, that you are fortunate I do not press for more! I am not yet tempted to have you replaced. Now get out. I have a headache."

With remarkable restraint considering the internal wildfire that was his own fury, Collins showed himself out. He stepped briskly past the sentry without noticing the man's hasty salute and clattered down the ladder to the messdeck. Stopping the Marines' grog and taking over the responsibility for awarding punishment to them. It was all unheard of. In theory, a ship's captain could do as he pleased with little repercussion, but most captains were sensible enough to respect established rules of conduct. Clearly Captain Leaford was one of those who believed completely in using his great authority in any way he wished.

"Sergeant Devlin and the corporals to lay aft!" He barked in the messdeck's general direction before storming aft into the wardroom. Hardy was in his cabin, just finishing laying the thin straw mattress back into the hanging cot. "Out," Collins told him sharply, resisting the powerful urge to upset his tiny desk as a means to relieve his temper.

Hardy was gone in an instant, but the door had barely clicked shut behind him before Devlin's voice was calling out from outside the wardroom. He and the two corporals had been astonishingly quick to answer their captain's summons - but they would be, really, considering the manner in which he'd called for them.

"Come aft!"

This was not going to go down well. With an effort, Collins settled down on the narrow folding chair and fetched the canvas roll that contained his writing implements from his sea-chest. A fresh sheet of paper was drawn out of the writing slope, but the arrival of his three ranking Marines prevented him from setting up the inkwell. Just as well, he supposed.

"Take a knee," he directed, ignoring their salutes. Jones, he noted, had a streak of what looked like pitch smeared across the sleeve of his checked shirt. He must have been on deck the last watch. Some of Collins' slowly-flagging anger flared again. God damn it. Blurring the barrier between the Marines and the seamen could only end poorly. Could not Leaford see that?

He waited until the three Marines had knelt, with Devlin budging up as close to the bulwark as he could to give the other two space, before continuing. "From this watch forward, until some time in the unknown future, the Marines have had their grog ration formally suspended. This is a result of the unacceptable conduct that has plagued this detachment since we left Antigua. The captain has decided this as a suitable punishment and I must say that I agree."

Their grog was to be stopped? Jones blinked. He couldn't see how they'd done anything like serious enough to deserve that. None of the lads had been drunk or disorderly. Except for Higgins and Tate, that was. Jones suppressed a wince as he remembered the blowing up he'd gotten from Sergeant Devlin for not stopping the disagreement before it had come to blows. That had hardly been his fault, though. He couldn't watch everything going on all the time, damn it!

"Seems a bit much, sir. None of the lads have been drunk. Dunno as we can do much if the cap'n's havin' lads seized up for any reason he can think of, drunk or not," McIntyre ventured, taking his cue from Collins and keeping his voice low.

"Do what you have not been doing, Corporal McIntyre. Stop trouble before it starts. I recall your own inactivity during the recent skylarking, in particular. You have authority by virtue of that knot on your shoulder. I'd thank you to use it. You cannot be everyone's friend!"

At this, Jones averted his gaze. Having the rank was one thing. Using it was another. He had never wanted to be promoted but their last officer had insisted. It had been one of the worst moments of his life. He'd been much happier just being one of the lads. Maybe it wouldn't have been so difficult if he'd been promoted and sent to another ship, instead of getting his step here and staying. Giving orders to his mates had always been an uneasy thing for him. Now he was being told to be a hard-horse as well. What would the lads think of that?

"The lads will tighten up, sir," Sergeant Devlin said quietly.

"They had better."

"Sir," Jones began. "What'll 'appen to Davenport an' Barrett?"

The captain sighed. "I expect they will be flogged. There was no intervention before Midshipman Thurlow discovered them, so it is out of my hands. It is a fine example of the lapse of supervision that has been occurring. Why did not any of you take notice of them and send Barrett to the surgeon, if nothing else?"

Jones avoided his officer's gaze and refrained from answering. He had been close enough to Davenport and Barrett to know what they were doing, but had not troubled himself to interfere. It wouuldn't have been proper. Davenport hadn't been doing anything wrong, so what was there for Jones to pull him up about?

"That's me fault, sir," said McInytre after a pause. "I didn't know Private Barrett's hands were that bad. He didn't show anythin' like he was - "

"It is not Private Barrett or his hands that I am truly concerned with," Collins interrupted. "It is the grog and Private Davenport's possession of it. Where did he get it from? How did he conceal it? Why was it not noticed and taken from him promptly? I have a very difficult time believing all three of you completely missed seeing what was going on right in front of you."

Despite himself, Jones flinched at the heat in the captain's voice. It was almost as if Collins was reprimanding him directly. He might as well be, really. By rights, Jones should make his own claim to responsibility for the oversight, but he couldn't. He still didn't quite believe there had been any true wrongdoing. The grog hadn't been saved so it could be drunk, after all.

"It's me own fault, sir. I was duty corporal last watch. I seen Private Barrett with the afterguard and should've known what was happenin' with him. He weren't sittin' too far from me neither, while Private Davenport was lookin' after him. I knew what was goin' on, sorta, but I didn't stop it."

"Corporal McIntyre. You are not the only one to whom blame may be given, but I appreciate your effort. Sergeant Devlin. See to it that the men are made aware of the new state of affairs and make it clear that any further misbehaviour will not be tolerated. The regulations of this ship will be enforced. You three are responsible for maintaining the discipline amongst the lads. I do not know where the lapse is occurring or who is to blame for it, but I want it stopped. No more of this shameful foolery, or by God I'll have each of you back in the ranks. Is that understood?"

They nodded, but Jones wondered if it would have mattered if any of them had expressed a lack of understanding. He certainly didn't see how he could have stopped any of the troubles that had occurred before now. The lads would always get into mischief and squabbles. It was their nature. How could he hope to ever stop them?

"That will be all. Dismissed," Collins went on, sounding unaccountably weary. Jones rose to his feet and opened the door, being that he was closest to it. McIntyre went out first, studiously not looking at him on the way out. After him came Sergeant Devlin, who looked as though he was thinking hard about something. When Jones made to leave himself, however, Captain Collins stopped him.

"Not you, not just yet. Have a seat, Corporal."

Jones hesitated before shutting the cabin door and lowering himself uncertainly to the deck, drawing his legs in close. This couldn't be good. Being held back for a private chat never was. "Sir?"

"Corporal McIntyre was not on the messdeck when Privates Davenport and Barrett were discovered with the grog," Collins said. "You were. Ah. Save it. I'm perfectly aware he has lied to me on that point. It is a mistruth I can forgive him for. I cannot, however, forgive yours. By failling to own to your complacency in this affair, you have lied to me, Corporal, and that, I cannot allow."

"Yes sir," Jones muttered, his eyes lowered in an intent study of the inside seams of his trousers.

"What I don't understand is why. You were there, you knew there was grog in that mug, yet you ignored it. It was something easily correctable. It would have taken only a few words and the matter would have been completely resolved. Yet you did nothing. Why is that?"

The only answer he could give to that was unacceptable and Jones knew it. "No excuse, sir."

"That hardly suits for an explanation. In fact it suggests a disinterest in admitting to misconduct of your own. It is one thing to neglect one's duty and be a private Marine. It is quite another to do the same as a corporal. You should already know, Corporal, that I'm not prepared to tolerate shirking from my ranking Marines. Especially when they are aware of offences and see them occurring nearby!"

"Yes sir."

"So tell me, Corporal Jones. Why are you content to let Corporal McIntyre, your colleague may I remind you, bear the blame unfairly? Why is it you permitted Privates Davenport and Barrett to be put under arrest for something you could have prevented?"

"No excuse, sir."

The captain let out a long sigh and did not speak again for nearly a minute. "Very well," he said at last. "Until the men on watch-standing duties are relieved from them, you will be part of the larboard watch. That will be the extent of your duties. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"That will be all. Dismissed."

Jones scrambled to his feet and let himself out. That had been an uncomfortable interview, not the least because he knew he could not be as honest with his officer as Collins expected. How could he come out and say he hated being a corporal and wanted nothing to do with the responsibility that came with the rank? Especially to an officer like that? It wasn't possible. So why did he feel like he had just lost something that could never be replaced?

~

Poor Mattie Barrett.

He had been the first one to receive the allotted dozen strokes and was unlucky enough have Mister Rutland wielding the cat for it. It was the first time he'd ever been flogged, which made the whole thing that much worse. The lad had born it up brilliantly, but any idiot could tell he was taking it hard. Madness. That's what this was. Utter madness. Albert Ware gazed down at his tin mug, which was filled with water from the scuttlebutt, and sighed. Any other time, he'd have offered Barrett his grog ration, but that was impossible now.

Grimacing to himself, Ware took a sip of the water. It tasted thick and wooden, like the barrel it was kept in. It wasn't at all the sort of drink a man needed to wash down a meal. Or to comfort himself after a flogging. He set the mug down. All this trouble over nothing. It wouldn't have been so bad if it'd been one of the older lads instead of Barrett. This was no way to get your first stripes. Of course, there wasn't any good way for that, really.

"Here, Mattie," Corporal McIntyre said, wedging himself in on the bench beside Barrett. "How's them wee scratches doin'?"

Barrett managed a weak smile. "Ain't nothin', Corporal. I'll be good vor stannin' sentry by tomarra."

"Sentry? What sorta talk is that? You're on light duties, you are. That means restin' and gettin' your strength back." McIntyre patted the lad carefully on the shoulder. "You ain't gonna miss any chances for sentry-go, that's sure."

"That's so," Ware agreed. "But if you're that willin' to get back to it, you can have my watches, an' I'll take your light duties."

This drew a faltering chuckle from Barrett, though it was obvious he didn't see much humour in the jest. "If you wants 'em, Berty, you can be havin' 'em."

"Don't mind him, Barrett. He's just too lazy for his own good. Best not to give him no ideas." McIntyre fished a small flask out of his trouser pocket. "Here. Get a bit of this down. It'll help take the edge off. Don't let it getcha down, Mattie. Every lad gets a striped shirt sooner or later."

The flask passed quickly into Barrett's bandaged hands, but he didn't uncork it. He clutched at it and kept his gaze on the mess-table. "Don't mean it's not a disgrace, Corporal."

"Now you're lookin' at it wrong," Ware told him. "Ain't anythin' like a disgrace. Some cap'ns just like the cat. Seems we got one of 'em now. 'Sides. How many of us you seen with old stripes on the back?" He nodded toward Sam Tate, who was slouched atop a sea-chest nearby, then pointed at Tom Carter and Edgar Tomilson, who were both hunched over their muskets. "Nothin' to be all-shamed of."

"I don't see 'ow - "

There was a rustle of fabric as McIntyre pulled his checked shirt off over his head. He stood up from the bench and turned so Barrett could see his back. The marks of previous floggings were obvious. Thick, pale raised scars slashed down across his back, from the right shoulder to the left hip, disappearing below the waistband of his trousers.

"Ain't nothin' but scars," the Irishman said. "They don't mean anythin' unless you make 'em mean somethin'."

Barrett could only stare, his expression almost fearful. Whatever words he might have said died in his throat. What could be said to that, anyway?

"Almost every lad here's got 'em," Ware said, as McIntyre sat down again. "Me, Mackie, Higgins, Tate, Lachlan, Shaner. Those lads from the quarterguard. Bell, even."

This brought a fleeting smirk back to Barrett's face. The notion that James Bell had been flogged before was perfectly believable. It was harder to imagine him not having suffered such a punishment. The crossgrained Newcastleman had scars all over his body and not just from floggings.

"Cor. Where you got alla 'em from, Corp'l?" One of the ship's boys padded toward them, his eyes round at the sight of McIntyre's back. It was Fingers, as dirty and tousled as usual.

"They're from not mindin' me bus'ness," McIntyre answered with a smirk. "What're you up to, Fingers? Skivin' off again?"

The boy shook his head. "No-o. Lookin' fer Sticks. He owes me a tuppence, he do!"

Ware laughed. "Still? He must not've been able to nick it from anybody. Sure he ain't had a coin to his name since 'fore we ran off outta Antigua."

"What's he owe you for?"

"He wuz parta the wager, when we took'at sloop. Put 'is tuppence on Higgins."

"And he ain't made good yet." McIntyre shook his head. "Sticks is on deck now, I think. Might try askin' his brother over there."

"A'right. Cheers." Fingers ran a little hand up over his face, pushing back some hanging curls of hair from his eyes. He headed for the opposite side of the messdeck, where the Shepherd twins had their hammock spaces. There was no way of knowing if it was actually Thomas there, instead of Andrew, but Ware figured McIntyre's guess had to be a good one. Or at least it was as good as any.

"That lad needs a good bathin'," the corporal remarked casually.

"Aye. He's prolly got 'nuff loose powder in his hair to fire a bowchaser with. An' all that tallow and blacklead all over him, too. Dunno why the gunner ain't made him wash jus' for safety."

"Here, that's somethin' for you to sort out, Mattie. See to it Fingers gets a bathin'. You'll be doin' a great service to the ship with it. Protectin' the magazines, like."

Barrett grinned, this time honestly. "Aye, maybe. Sure he's gotta be soome other colour'n grey." He glanced down at the flask in his hands, the cork still firmly in place. After a pause, he held it out to McIntyre. " 'Preciate it, Corporal, but I'm all right."

The flask was accepted back with a nod. "Good lad."

It was, Ware thought, a good sign that Barrett's spirits were buoyed without much effort. The lad was a cheerful sort anyway and it wasn't right to see him feeling low. He had another swallow of water from his mug and made a face. Barrett might not want any hoarded grog, but Ware wouldn't turn it down. The order that none of the Marines were to have their grog ration hardly mattered. Clearly not to McIntyre, at least.

"Share the flask, Mackie?"

The Irishman grinned. "Not a chance. 'Sides. It ain't mine, so it ain't. There's no grog allowed for us either, 'member?"

"C'mon, that ain't hardly fair."

"Ain't nothin' fair in a ship of war, Berty," McIntyre countered cheerfully, tucking the flask back into his pocket. "Best not to tempt fate even talkin' of it. Right? I've gotta shove off now, see 'bout checkin' the sentries. Work don't stop just 'cause the grog does!"

Ware grimaced down into his mug of water, and missed seeing McIntyre pause after rising from the bench to whisper briefly into Barrett's ear. He looked up again in time to see Barrett nodding, which drew a light frown to his face. Something had just happened and he'd missed it. "You're promisin' him sneaked grog, ain't you, Mackie?"

"Now, why would I do somethin' like that?" McIntyre patted Barrett lightly on the shoulder. "You lads behave now. Don't be gettin' slack 'cause there's nothin' happenin' this watch!"

With a smirk, the corporal bundled up his shirt and headed toward his sea-chest, where he'd change back into his duty uniform. Poor beggar, really. Most of the daily responsibilities fell to him, since Corporal Jones had been restricted to deck-work only. They'd hardly seen Sergeant Devlin at all lately, even. Ware shook his head and offered his mug to Barrett, who accepted it gratefully. It wasn't grog but it was better than nothing.

~

Dan Babbin had eyed him with obvious suspicion before grudgingly telling him that Chase was on the foc's'le. Tellingly, the seaman did not hang about but moved away directly after sharing this informaiton, leaving Sam Lachlan shrugging and yet unsurprised. Rumour had it the seamen believed the Marines were the ones Captain Leaford wanted to break. It was no wonder they'd want as little to do with the Marines as possible.

There was little enough he could do about that so he didn't worry over it. He had plenty of other things on his mind anyway. One of them was the small figure standing next to Chase at the fore larboard pinrail, with an uncomfortably stiff posture that hinted at some measure of pain being silently endured. The young midshipman, facing more aft than Chase, spotted Lachlan first and the Marine's approach brought a fleeting smile to the lad's freckled face.

"What d'you want?" Chase asked in a bland tone, having turned about to see who was coming near. There was no hint of hostility in the topman's expression or even his tone, but Lachlan knew a challenge when he faced one. It was a commonly-encountered situation for Marines.

"Jes' lookin' in on Mister Hamilton," he replied. "How's ye farin', sir?"

The young midshipman straightened up, trying to appear as though he was not suffering. "I'm well, thank you. Chase is teachin' me the ropes."

"So I sees. D'ye ken 'em back tae front, sir?"

"Braces go first. Fore royal, fore t'g'llant, fore tops'l, forecourse," Mister Hamilton said, touching each taut upward line as he named it. "Then the halyards. Fore royal, fore t'g'llant, fore tops'l, forecourse. Er, the braces are worked first, if the ship's changing tack."

Judging by the broad grin on Chase's face, this answer was not only correct, but smartly-given. It was a good sign. The lad was a quick study. It was also good to give him something positive to concentrate on, to take his mind off his recent caning.

"He's a quick'n, Mister Hamilton is," the foretopman said. "Had his tour of the foc's'le at the start of the watch. Best to begin it easy, like!"

Lachlan grinned. "Nae bad, tha'. Ye ha' a prime hand tae learn off. He'll see ye reet. Though, if ye dinnae mind, sir, I'll meet ye here in the firs' dog wi' me musket. Livin' in a ship's nae a' aboot cordage an' sails!"

"Er, aye! That'd be reet fine!" The lad checked, his small face colouring. "I mean, yes, thank ye, Private."

"The firs' dog, then, sir."

"Seems the other young gennelmen's gatherin' aft, sir," Chase pointed out. "Prob'ly a lesson in the offin'. Better fit you cut along to join 'em." The topman waited until Mister Hamilton had gone, the lad obviously pleased with himself for taking so readily to gently-offered instruction, before turning a sober look in Lachlan's direction. "Bear a hand with these, cully. The bos'un's watchin' and I needs a word with you."

Great. Lachlan didn't hesitate, being awarre that the boatswain had the rightful authority to turn him off the weatherdeck if he served no useful purpose topside. Helping Chase tidy up the flaked-down lines was as good an excuse as any to stay on deck, at least for a few minutes. "Fit's ye on aboot?"

"The devil's yer interest in that middie?" Chase asked. ignoring Lachlan's question. "Here, you lubber, do it neatly."

"Fit b'ness is et o' yers? Ye're his sea-daddy noo, but tha' dinnae mean ye've took on 'sponsibility fur alla his affairs." Lachlan bent to his task, resolved to not let Chase nettle him, but then he relented. It was not the sailor's fault any of this had come about. "Yon mark on the lad's mug, ye've saw et. Tha's Mister Thurlow's daein. Et were on'y reet t'goo aiter the poor bairn an' see he's a'reet. Sure ye'd ha' done nae diff'rent."

"Would I?" The topman shrugged, though this action followed a brief thoughtful pause. "There's no sense consarnin' yerself with a young gennelman's bizness, cully, 'less you want to spend all yer time at the gratin'."

There was no talking any sense to this one, Lachlan realised, and he straightened carefully up, abandoning his work only half-finished. "Ye ken, I'd reckoned ye a braw sorta lad, but I didnae think ye wus jist an ill-natered sharn. Dinnae fash yerself aboot et. I'll haa' the lads dae their bit fur t'see the middie's shewn reet."

He turned away and tramped irritably to the forrard ladder, heading down it without a backward glance. The devil could take fools like Cob Chase, who were supposed to be men but in reality were hardly more than overgrown boys with no sense between their ears or courage in their spines. There were few aboard who could better teach Mister Hamilton the sailing trade but that was about all Chase was good for.

"Heer, why-for are ya hurryin', Sammy? Seen ya a ghost or summat-lak?" Mattie Barrett wanted to know. The young Marine had lifted a bandaged hand as if to hail Lachlan like he was a passing hansom cab.

"Ye seen Sarn't Devlin?" Lachlan asked in return, not of a mood to entertain prying questions.

With a puzzled frown, Barrett pointed forrard. "Arms locker, the spare muskets be needin' i inspectin', he wuz sayin'."

"Aye. Reet. Cheers."

The nearest Marines stared in silent confusion as Lachlan turned sharply on his heel and hastened back forrard, weaving his way expertly through the milling crowd of off-watch seamen. It was fortunate Sergeant Devlin was in the arms locker. That made asking for his musket considerably easier. On his way, he spotted Cob Chase making his way aft with a grave expression on his face. What the devil was he about? Lachlan checked, almost turning back to follow, but he had more pressing matters to attend and thus did not so much as look back.

For his part, Symon Higgins was just as baffled as Barrett. There was no denying that Lachlan was up to something but the Scotsman had, unusually, given nothing at all away about his purpose. "Dooee know what - " he began, but got no further.

"Higgins."

He knew that voice and knew immediately what was coming. Grimacing, Higgins looked up from the work of sharpening his bayonet. "Aye, zo that's I. What dooee want?"

Jacob Chase ambled toward him across the invisible boundary that separated the seamen's part of the messdeck from the Marines', his hands shoved into the pockets of his grubby working trousers, a deliberately neutral expression on his face. "I wants a word. Private-like."

Not again. But there was nothing for it, with the lads watching and listening. Higgins set his bayonet and whet stone aside and ignored the questioning frown directed at him by George Swift. He knew what Chase wanted a word about and he had no interest at all in letting the others hear a bit of it. Damn it. The sailor had a terrible sense of timing!

"Foc's'le, then. But I bain't payin' 'ee no farthin' till 'ee gives me that forage cap back."

There was a short, grunted chuckle from Tom Jenkins, who was sitting nearest, and Higgins just noticed the headshake and eyeroll from Swift. He had no way of knowing if his hastily-conceived lie would hold water but it seemed to. Or at least it was reasonable enough that the lads weren't thinking too hard on it. That was the important thing.

For his part, Chase simply looked disgusted. "Stingy beggar, you. That's no way to do bizness. Anyway, c'mon. I got lads waitin' on me."

Higgins stood up, pretending not to be irrirated by the seaman's tone, and grabbed his off-watch jacket. "I be cummin'." He slipped his arms carefully into the short-waisted grey jacket as he fell into step just behind Chase, his irritation returning because of the weight of the gazes he felt on his back. Whatever he said, he knew the lads would be curious at best and suspicious at worst. How was he going to explain this meeting away when he got back?

" 'Ee ought be knowin' better'n this," Higgins grumbled when they reached the forrard ladder. "Iffen this a'posed t'be seekrit an' all."

"I warned you, din't I? About keepin' yer mates in line. Seems t'me an' the boys you ain't done a good job of it. You lot don't want us stickin' our oars in, that's plain talk. But we'll do it 'cause sure you bullocks can't behave yourselves." There was a pause while Chase shambled casually toward the larboard rail. Higgins followed him, feeling his irritation strengthening into proper anger.

"Us'ns don't need no mindin' lak we's cow-babbies. Iffen et wuzn't fur - "

Chase waved a hand to interrupt him. "No, cully. You ain't hearin' me. You lot had yer chance to sort yourselves out. It ain't happened. So it's down to - "

"Skooze Eye," snarled Higgins, his temper overpowering his better judgment. "But don't 'ee be furgettin' oo's oo in this barky. Eye bain't a lad t'be threatenin' lak all that, an' 'ee oughta know et. Iffen 'ee got quirkin' t'do, gan an' do yer voccatin' a' me corp'ral, 'cuz Eye bain't gooin' t'lissen to et."

"It's best if you does listen, Higgins, 'cause the cap'n ain't the only bloke aboard what'll make life hard for you bullocks. Havin' yer grog stopped will be the least of yer troubles, you keeps on like you are. Shut yer gob, cully, 'cause that ain't a threat. That'n's a promise, it is, an' God help you if you go on thinkin' it's not."

This manner of talk did nothing but fire Higgins' fighting blood. What gave Chase the right to speak as if he had any authority? Especially to him, a Marine? "Now 'ee lissen to Eye, y'gurt big eller - "

"Higgins!"

The curt bark stopped Higgins short, a heartbeat after he grabbed a fistful of Chase's shirt front. For an instant, he feared that Captain Collins had spotted them, but it was only Nick Frazier who appeared beside them. The Yorkshireman's arrival stopped Chase from reflexively shoving back against Higgins' grip on his shirt, which would have been the first blow in the escalating disagreement.

"What's a' this foolery, lads?" Frazier asked, his tone low but sharp. Higgins realised there were a handful of seamen idling not far behind Frazier, their expressions grave. "Leave the feightin' fur the Yankees, aye? There's bin 'nuff trouble wi'out a' tha'. Gan 'bout thy b'ness, Chase, an' cahr thyself."

There was a long pause even after Higgins released his grip on Chase's shirt. Neither man moved, nor did it seem they had any intention of doing so, until Chase let out a short, sharp oath and turned abruptly away on his heel. His departure drew the silently watching seamen away as well and a noticeable element of tension faded from the air. Frazier sighed but did not feel comfortable enough to relax. This had nearly been disaster.

"The divvil's thee thinkin'? Near-to feightin' up on the foc's'le, where e'ery lad can see? An' jist havin' bin at the gratin'. A body'd reckon thou's got feathers fur brains." Frazier shook his head, then stuck a hand into his trouser pocket. He kept a small pouch of chewing tobacco, even though he did not chew himself. It was a better currency than actual coin, he'd learned. "Here, 'ave thee a cheekful, afore Mister Alderbury mahkes a fuss."

To his relief, Higgins accepted the pouch and helped himself to a healthy pinch. "Thrice-damned Tars," he grumbled around the tobacco. "Allus be clittersome. That'n most. He's reckonin' us be needin' mindin'. He telt I agin t'keep the lads in line, lak, z'if I could!"

Frazier lifted an eyebrow. "Di' he, naow?"

"Oh aye. He'll 'ave his'n mates watchin' us'ns, zure. Now Barrett an' Dav got they stripes, zeems he reckons us'ns be dang'rous to 'em. I'll geddit to him, I will, he does zommat."

"Tha woan't," Frazier told him firmly. "Tell Mackie of it, or the cap'n even, but doan't thee get inta moar trouble. Here," he added, catching sight of Mister Rutland moving their way, his starter in hand. "Gan below naow. I'll see thee laater."

He shoved off himself, back toward where his fellow waisters were busy clearing away after the morning routine of scrubbing the weather deck. Mister Rutland angled around the foremast to intercept him, swinging his starter purposefully.

"There's no idlin' on my weather deck, cully," the boatswain's mate growled. "I catch you standin' around jawin' at yer mates again, I'll give you a right ol' leatherin', see?"

"Aye, Mister Rutland," Frazier replied dutifully. Like hell he'd ignore a possible fight between one of his mates and a seaman. It was worth risking a leathering. Even one from Rutland. Without a further word, the Marine crossed to where Mayden was busy polishing the ship's bell. What a more fitting task for Marines, he thought wryly as he grabbed up a sponge and set to work with it.

"We got oursen a probl'm," he said in an undertone, so only Mayden could hear. The more lads who knew about this, he reasoned, the better. They'd all need to be on their guard. As if it wasn't bad enough having to watch out for the officers. "A reight bad'n."

~

The light scratch at his cabin door alerted Jonathan Collins to the presence of a visitor, but he waited a long moment in order to finish writing before calling out, "Come."

With a barely audible creak, the door swung open and Sergeant Devlin eased into the cabin, offering a salute and looking unusually grave. This could not be good. Collins set his pen back into the inkwell and shifted in his chair so he was facing his sergeant. "Yes, Sergeant?"

Devlin hesitated, his gaze flicking down to the open muster book on the tiny desk. "Might be some trouble with the Tars, sir. Corporal McIntyre's just been to see me about it. He heard it off Private Ware. Seems it's travelled like usual rumour, 'cept I had a word with Private Frazier about it - he'd started it all off - and he broke up a near-scrap between Jacob Chase and Private Higgins, up on the foc's'le. I've spoke to him, too. Short of it, sir, is that Chase's been threatenin' Higgins 'bout how the lads have been behaving. Chase bein' of a mind that the seamen will take to keepin' our lads in line their own selves, like."

There wasn't much Devlin could have said that was worse than that. Relations between the seamen and his Marines were usually civil, if not friendly in individual cases, but this was a sign that affairs had definitely soured. He knew enough of Jacob Chase to feel a distinct unease about learning he was a potential instigator of trouble. Worse, it had been Frazier and not Corporal Jones, who was also part of the larboard duty watch, who had stepped in to stop the disagreement. It seemed that yesterday's conversation with Jones on this same topic had already been forgotten. Collins smothered a curse with an effort and instead breathed out a long sigh. "Do you have any idea what may have caused Chase to think along such a line?"

"Not for certain-sure, sir. I ain't took the time to have a word with Private Higgins yet. Reckoned it best to let know you how it all stands first."

Sensible enough, but it still left too many questions unanswered. Most prominent amongst them was, 'how to stop this before it got any worse?' There was no doubt that he had to be discreet, for if Captain Leaford were to hear even a whisper about this, men would end up being flogged and the divisive feeling would deepen. Damn.

"Bring Private Higgins aft, if you please. Quietly."

Devlin was gone in a moment, leaving his captain feeling torn between despair and anger. That there was yet more trouble involving Marines was a reflection on his competence and leadership. He had always prided himself on his ability to keep in tune with his Marines and ensure they were clean, sober, and disciplined. Where that had begun to fail, he could not say, but it had failed and it had to cease.

"Private Higgins, sir." Devlin was back, even more grim-faced than before, if that was possible. He stepped aside to let Higgins duck into the cabin and then he was gone, slipping off to await a return summons to escort the Marine out again. Collins waited several seconds before speaking, as much to bring his own thoughts to order as not. This was a delicate situation and he knew Higgins' nature well. 'Fight first and think second' summed the Somersetman up all too accurately.

"Stand easy, Higgins." He waited until the Marine had, with the most fleeting reluctance, relaxed his rigid stance. "Now. You are no fool. I expect you are already aware why I want a word. I also expect nothing less than absolute truth from you. This encounter of yours with Jacob Chase was the second one, for much the same reason. What, precisely, was the conversation?"

A reply was not immediately forthcoming but he guessed he knew the reason for it. As far as questions went, Collins didn't consider that too difficult, but he also knew he was putting Higgins on the defensive right away. It might lead to an interview during which he'd have to pry all the answers he needed from the Marine. He wasn't sure he'd have the patience for that and accordingly felt compelled to add, "Let me clarify. To the best of your recollection, what passed between you and Chase, before Private Frazier intervened?"

"He 'ad concerns 'bout the lads, zurr," Higgins said presently, his expression guarded. "An' how they's behavin'. Zeems he reckons us'ns bain't dooin' a hackle, lak."

That confirmed what Devlin had told him but it was not the whole story. Collins was no green subaltern who'd take a man's word at face value. Especially not in a case like this. "What did you say to that?"

"I telt 'im us'ns bain't the on'y ones beein' agin et, zurr. But he weren't heerin' I, lak. Thurr mebbe gooin' be trouble wi' 'em, zurr, if us'ns don't smarten oop, I be thinkin'." A flicker of something Collins thought might be worry passed across Higgins' expression, but it was gone before he could more clearly identify it. "That be awl, zurr."

"Except it's not, Higgins. That was the second time Chase approached you. What of the first time? I suspect that meeting was not so hostile as this more recent one."

Nothing but silence answered that, at first. It was plain that Higgins was considering the most likely consequences of his being honest. Of course, deliberately lying to his captain meant more trouble than if he was honest and dropped Chase in it. And Collins knew that Higgins knew that.

"Et weren't bad, zurr. Frien'ly sorta chat, lak. But he... aye, he wuz bein' tonguey, zurr. He zaid Mister Prewett an' one of the middies be snoopin', a-hen-housey lak, 'specially arter the Yankees 'mongst the comp'ny, zurr. The Master-at-Arms, furr one. Zeems the Tars iz awl begrumpled 'cuz of havin' zum of us'ns in the wurkin' watches." Higgins twitched his shoulders fractionally in a shrug, his gaze fixed resolutely on a point just beyond Collins' left ear. He would not meet his officer's eye. "He telt I he an' his'n mates'd sort us'ns out if 'ee wurrn't a-gooin' to."

That last remark held the key. Collins kept himself from sitting back heavily in his chair only with an effort. He had been afraid of hearing those very words, for they meant the trouble he knew to be brewing was much closer to boiling over than he had suspected. Any action he took would have to be swift and decisive. He did not like finding himself behind in the race, as it were, yet that was precisely where he was now. God damn it.

"Who else knows of this?"

"Nubbody, zurr."

Not quite, Collins guessed, but he wasn't going to quibble. Instead, he said, "Tell no one of it, or of the particulars of this meeting. I do wish you might've come to me with this sooner, of course, but it can't be helped now. Should Chase approach you again, I want to know of it immediately."

"Aye aye, zurr." There was a slight pause then Higgins lowered his voice just enough to indicate the possible inclusion of something he didn't want overheard. "Chase'll know et be I what turnt rat on him, zurr. Thurr'll be trouble, lak, zurr. An' 'ee'll be more in et than us'ns will, I be thinkin'."

"You're not wrong, but you did not hear that from me," answered Collins in a similarly-lowered voice. "I'd be grateful if you were more concerned about keeping yourself out of trouble, however. Not a word of this meeting's particulars to anyone else, either. I'll know of it directly if you break that confidence. Now. Unless there's anything more that passed between you and Chase which you're willing to tell me of, you may be dismissed."

Unsurprisingly, Higgins offered nothing more than a salute before making good his escape from the cabin. Sergeant Devlin had returned to guide Higgins out of the wardroom, as uncannily instinctive as ever. He waited until the heavy tramp of Devlin's shoes had gone before exhaling sharply. Christ above, this was a terrible mess. When had he become so out of tune with his own men? It defied understanding. It had to be set right however, or he would find himself in danger of completely losing the privilege of commanding the detachment.

"Safe to come in, sir?" The voice outside the cabin door was Hardy's and contained a clear note of wariness. Doubtless he'd seen Higgins' coming and going, and guessed it could not mean anything good.

"Send Sergeant Devlin and the corporals aft," Collins answered. He was not in the mood to tolerate his steward's subtle attempts to calm his temper. Not yet. Hardy withdrew without a word and within a minute, that familiar heavy tread was back.

"Sent for, sir," Devlin called, waiting until called before easing the door open. He had come alone, Collins noted with a flash of dismay, but from outside the wardroom came the hurried rattle of feet. At least one of his two corporals was on his way. McIntyre, probably. Jones should not be too far behind.

"That's the pair of 'em, sir," Devlin told Collins partially over his shoulder, having stayed halfway through the door to watch for the two corporals. Presently, he was proven correct with the hasty arrival of McIntyre first and Jones hard on his heels.

It was clear the instant the two slipped into the cabin why they had been tardy. Jones was dressed in his off-watch rig but was lacking his jacket and cap, and his shirt sleeves had been rolled up past the elbow. He looked as though he had just come down from topside. McIntyre, on the other hand, was turned out in full kit, though he carried his hat under his left arm. He wore a sword instead of his bayonet, the spotless crossbelt hanging off his right shoulder. He must have been in the process of checking the sentries.

"Close the door, Sergeant."

The three Marines took their cue from Collins' clipped tone and straightened instinctively to attention. After he'd pushed the door shut, Devlin advanced the barest bit into the overcrowded cabin and put his heels together with just enough of a click to be noticeable. "Sir. Is this about - "

"I would thank you, Sergeant Devlin, to be silent."

The rebuke did not occasion any change in Devlin's expression, though there was a barely perceptible wince from Jones. The sergeant had obliglingly fallen silent and Collins took a moment to order his thoughts. It was just as well. Now was not the time for Devlin to attempt to put himself square in the path of his captain's anger. Not when, yet again, all three of them deserved to be roasted. Jones most of all, perhaps, but in that moment, Collins was going to put a stop to all of this nonsense for good.

"I have, it seems, had to speak with you three on the matter of discipline amongst the detachment more times than any officer of sense should tolerate. Since leaving English Harbour, there has been a steady, noticeable, and troubling decline in the behaviour of the men. The causes for it aside, I find it thoroughly unforgivable that it has been allowed to continue without any attempt made to curb it. This has been a matter I have addressed to you more than once and it has been a matter that has not been resolved. I am out of patience with this whole affair and most particularly with you three and your inability to do your duty. That does not require comment, sir."

McIntyre subsided, nearly before he had been able to open his mouth. Beside him, Jones looked faintly sick and that, more than all else, proved the tipping point. Collins was on his feet before he realised he had moved. In the tiny cabin, this now meant he was standing practically in their faces.

"This slack on your part leaves me with no alternative. From this instant forward, I will require no further involvement from any of you beyond any assistance I may request from you. You, Corporal Jones, will remain with the larbowlins. You, Sergeant, and you, Corporal McIntyre, will stand sentry alongside the men as one of them. Command of your squads is now mine directly. Responsibility for inspecting the senties is now mine directly. Responsibility for musket and small arms drill is now mine directly. It is clear that none of you are equal to your ranks and I have passed my limit in permitting such negligence to continue uncorrected. Your keys, Sergeant Devlin. Now"

This was much too extreme a step but Collins had been forced to take it. He was not happy to have done so. Just as, clearly, his senior Marines were not happy to have been so summarily relieved both of their ranks and duties. Even the staid Sergeant Devlin hesitated for a heartbeat before surrendering his heavy iron ring of keys.

"Your shoulder knots. And your sash, Sergeant. Corporal McIntyre. You may retain your sword for as long as it will take to secure it in the arms locker. Corporal Jones. When dismissed, you will fetch your shoulder knot and deliver it to me immediately. Then you may return on deck and resume your duties there. When you are dismissed, I will precede you to the messdeck, where I will address the detachment. They shall hear of this from my mouth first and not yours. Is that understood?"

"Aye aye, sir." The response came in a flat-voiced chorus. All three were clinging to their composure, but only just. It was understandable. Collins had just stripped them of everything that set them apart from the rest of the detachment. In an instant, he'd turned all their worlds upside down. He waited until Devlin and McIntyre had removed their shoulder knots, and Devlin his sash, before holding out a hand to receive the items.

"You may have these back when I feel it prudent to return them to you. That is all. You are dismissed but will follow me to the messdeck."

Collins laid the sash and the two shoulder knots into his hanging cot and ignored the flash of a grimace from McIntyre. It was done now. He could only hope that such a drastic step would see the return of proper discipline to the detachment. If not... he did not know what he could do. What a terrible damned mess.

He steeled himself, then stepped briskly past the three Marines, opening the cabin door himself and leading the way out of the cramped space. That there might be anyone else in the wardroom had not occurred to him, but the instant he emerged from his cabin, he spotted Doctor Finch seated at the wardroom table. The physician looked up only briefly from the letter he was writing, but his expression was impossible to read. He was not the only man present, however, Collins realised with a sinking heart. Lieutenant Simcoe was also in, and just returning a half-full decanter of brandy to the sideboard. Contrary to Doctor Finch, the first luff met and held Collins' gaze, a smirk playing about his lips.

The Captain of Marines turned just a little too sharply on his heel and strode from the wardroom, resolutely pretending he had not seen the mocking salute Simcoe had offered with his brandy glass. The two men had heard everything. Damn it all. He could be assured of Finch's discretion but not Simcoe's. Captain Leaford would learn of this episode within half a bell. It would no doubt mean a summons to the great cabin to explain himself.

"Detachment!" Collins barked, coming to a halt two steps past the aft ladder. As bidden, Jones vanished up the ladder with perhaps more haste than decorum permitted. At that moment Collins was not inclined to care. "Form aft!"

Now what, Sam Lachlan wondered, was this about? He lifted an enquiring eyebrow at Mattie Barrett, whose shoes he'd been blacking, but Barrett could only shake his head. It wasn't like the younger Marine would have known more than Lachlan anyway. The pair rose from their mess table and joined the others in gathering close to their captain.

"Lookit," Barrett muttered, nudging Lachlan with his elbow. At the Scotsman's curious glance, Barrett nodded toward Sergeant Devlin. Who, aside from standing in grim-faced silence behind Captain Collins, was not wearing his sash or his shoulder knot. A quick glance at Corporal McIntyre revealed the absence of a shoulder knot there as well. Lachlan's eyes widened. Now what in the hell was that about? There was a barely audible ripple of uneasy exclamation through the cluster of Marines as each man took note of what Barrett had spotted first.

Collins had begun speaking, as if to head off any silent queries. If his expression and bearing had not given away his mood, his sharp tone of voice did. "I shan't beat about the bush. Sergeant Devlin and Corporals Jones and McIntyre have been relieved of their rank and their duties. They will be part of the working detachment for the foreseeable future. Command of their squads is now mine. Any issues, about anything at all, will be brought directly to me. Is that understood?"

It was a heartbeat or two before a ragged, stunned chorus of acknowledgements came from the assembled Marines. Of all the things their captain might have told them, Lachlan had never expected this. What had those three done that was so horrible, that Captain Collins felt it necessary to punish them so? There was nothing that came readily to mind, for they had only ever done their best. Even Jones, really, soft as the Welshman was.

"There have also, I am informed, been some disagreements with the sailors. These are to be reported to me at once. No man in this detachment will make any attempt whatever to resolve business of his own accord. I shall see any man who disobeys that flogged down to his rib-bones. Is that understood?" The captain waited for the acknowledgement before looking, it seemed, straight at Higgins. "You are Marines, charged with maintaining good order in this ship. I have not had so many reasons to regard this detachment to be a poor one before this cruise, and by God I shall not take a man of you ashore to face the enemy if matters do not improve!"

The men stared in open, silent, astonishment. As far as threats went, that was the worst imaginable. To have their own captain, whom most of them respected and would follow anywhere, tell them in such plain terms that he did not trust them... Lachlan felt a brief tightening in his throat. Not much was more hurtful than that. Had they truly been doing so badly?

"Let there be no doubt," the captain went on, his voice now as cold and hard as flint. "I am not now nor will I be prepared to tolerate the slightest misbehaviour from any one of you. My patience has been tried far too sorely. The next Marine who find himself afoul of the laws of this ship, however slightly, will be delivered directly to Captain Leaford for judgment. I shall not exert any effort to defend men who cannot hold themselves to even the simplest standard of discipline when it is asked of them. Is. That. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," came the clash of responses.

Collins looked over the gathered Marines, his gaze sharp and angry. To a man, the Marines avoided meeting his eye. "This ship shall join the New York squadron within the week and will likely go into action soon after. There will, accordingly, be musket drill this afternoon, at four bells in the afternoon watch, with a full parade and inspection following. From now until I decide otherwise, there will be musket drill every day at four bells in the morning watch and cutlass drill at four bells in the afternoon watch, in addition to the daily parade and inspection."

There was a pause, during which Collins again let his gaze sweep over the faces of the assembled men. It was almost as if he was assessing their individual thoughts and reactions to what he was telling them. "Those men not down for sentry-go during the afternoon watch today will report to the arms locker at six bells in this watch to draw their muskets. Those men who will relieve the lads presently on sentry-go will hold to the usual routine. That is all. Detachment! Dis-miss!"

Well, Lachlan thought dazedly, that was undeniably the end of any thought the lads might have had of anything going right ever again. If even their captain felt they were so unruly as that... it stung. Deeply. It also meant, he realised, that there was nothing between them and Collins. No buffer, no safety. He looked over to where Corporal McIntyre was still standing near the aft ladder as if rooted to the deck, a stricken expression on his face, and felt the tightening in his throat return. How could they even begin to do as Collins demanded, when they had no one but him to turn to? Didn't he, as an officer, understand?

"Christ," Lachlan said in a faltering voice. He felt unable to move in any direction but forward, toward McIntyre. Captain Collins had since retreated to the wardroom, leaving the Marines to mill about in bewildered, disbelieving, confusion. None of them were yet able to even partially comprehend everything they had just heard. "Mackie. Fit jist happened?"

There was a long, long pause before McIntyre answered, or seemed to have any ability to speak at all. "We're all for it," said the Irishman presently, his own voice cracking. "I can't believe he's... that he... my God, Sam, sure there's no hope if even the cap'n..."

The only thing Lachlan could think to do was put a hand on the former corporal's shoulder. It was a rough, clumsy attempt to show his understanding. But McIntyre had it dead to rights. There was indeed no hope for them, whatever Captain Collins said to the contrary. He'd just thrown all of them to the wolves, hadn't he? It would not have been any worse if he'd told them they were no better than a pile of sheep dung under his shoe. Hell, he might as well have done that! Lachlan felt a prickling beginning in his eyes and hastily cuffed a hand over his face to smear the dampness away. It was stupid to feel like his world was falling to bits around him, even though that was exactly how it seemed.

For the first time in six years of service, Sam Lachlan felt ashamed to be a Marine.