Dogwatches - Chapter 9

[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.
Chapter word count: 5488
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, 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 | Seven | Eight



"Deck there!"

The hail brought an immediate stop to the cutlass drill in progress on the weather deck. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned upward to stare at the masthead lookout. There was the barest of pauses before a second hail came from above, causing an instant stir on the quarterdeck.

"Sail, broad off the starboard bow! Two masts an' hull up!"

Captain Leaford, having been on deck to observe the cutlass drill, wasted no time. "Master-at-Arms, secure those cutlasses. Mister Matheson, all hands to make sail! Royals will do, if you please."

Movement seized the deck, spurred on by the shriek of the boatswain's call. The Master-at-Arms made quick work of collecting the cutlasses, which he and the ship's corporal carried below. Sailors were swarming aloft, manning the royal yards on all three masts. On the quarterdeck, the men of the afterguard and foc's'le crews stood by as they waited for the sailhandlers to cast off the gaskets and shake the sails loose.

"Smartly now, damn it!"

The stream of commands that attended every piece of sailhandling flowed forth from the officer of the watch, and the setting of the royal sails was achieved in short order. Albert Ware kept the tension on the tailing end of a sheet while Tom Mayden and Dan O'Dell heaved on it, until the seaman secured the line with figure-of-eight loops around the belaying pin. The two Marines helped flake down the rest of the lines, then they retreated to the waist, where the rest of the duty watch was gathering.

"D'you reckon that's the squadron from New York?"

Colbert Smith shrugged. "Cou' be. Cou' be the Frogs too. Dunno 'til we get up cloaser. Mean time," he added, with a pointed glance toward the officers at the rail, "we oughta keep quiet down here. There's bin 'nuff trouble laately."

"Ain't any harm in talkin'," Mayden muttered.

"Not if tha doant knaaw who's lissenin'."

That served to shut Mayden up, fortunately. He settled for making a halfhearted show of inspecting the lashings on the boat tier for a few moments before sighing. "Wonder what the sailin' master's got planned."

"How d'thee mean?"

"What, ain't you heard? He's been schemin'. Him an' Mister Thurlow. That's what Higgins said anyway. I reckon I believe it, after yesterday."

"So what 'f he is? He ain't half's bad as the cap'n. 'Sides. We got moar'n our share o' probl'ms naow, wi'out warryin' aboot him too, 'f tha asks me."

Mayden was shaking his head. "Not hardly nothin'. He don't like Yankees. You know that. He ain't had his eye off me, anyway, since I started workin' in the afterguard. Bastard's schemin' an' it ain't gonna be good."

"Tha's bein' daf'," Smith told him.

"Am I? Tell me why he an' Mister Thurlow been havin' quiet chats every chance they get? Or why it's always been Mister Thurlow catchin' the lads out fer things?"

Smith shrugged. "Dunno. Bad luck, I s'pose."

"Bad luck, nothin'. There's somethin' in the wind, mate. I knows it. Ain't gonna be pleasant, neither. That middie'll be - "

"You men there! No idlers on my weather deck!" It was Captain Leaford. "Mister Matheson, spur those lubbers to work!"

The two Marines grimaced and stirred themselves away from the boat tier, joining the rest of the duty watch in scattering about the deck. There was nothing else for it but to find small tasks to keep themselves busy until the watches changed. Smith risked a glance and a grimace aft, toward the sentries at the quarterdeck stairs. Those poor beggars had it easier than him, right then. They were easy to overlook, after all. It was one reason he increasingly disliked being part of the working crew.

At his place by the larboard quarterdeck stairs, Tom Jenkins pretended not to have seen the grimace. Smith could be an idiot when he was of a mind. It was only luck none of the officers had noticed. There was an unusual tension on the quarterdeck now, he thought. The unknown ship on the horizon could be part of the New York squadron, or it could be a French force. There was no way to tell until they got closer, but he didn't relish the idea of having to turn tail and run should that ship not be British.

"Mister Prewett," Leaford was saying from the rail. "Hold this course closely. We will join with that ship by the end of the next watch, I should think. Mister Alderbury. I may be called when we are close enough to make out her signals. Carry on, gentlemen."

Jenkins straightened up slightly when footsteps coming toward him announced the captain's approach. Unsurprisingly, the sea officer swept past him without paying him any mind. That was how it went. When Leaford had gone down the ladder, Jenkins relaxed. Only three bells until the watches changed. Happily.

"Beg pardon, sir," the sailing master grunted. "Seems to be some trouble up forrard."

This remark, despite being made mostly in an undertone, caught Jenkins' attention at once. Trouble up forrard? Not again! He scanned the weather deck intently, but saw nothing to suggest anything like trouble. At least not within his field of view. Mister Prewett could better see the whole deck.

"Indeed? Where away?" Lieutenant Alderbury asked, sounding cautiously curious.

"Starboard side, sir. Near the foc's'le. There's a young gentleman jus' spotted 'em too."

A young gentleman. Despite knowing better, Jenkins scowled. He'd lay odds it was Mister Midshipman Thurlow. Again. That sneaking little bastard. When would enough be enough for him?

"Bo'sun!" Alderbury's voice cracked out like a whip. "Fetch those two men aft, if you please!"

There was an uneasy silence as Matheson hastened to obey, escorting two seamen aft, with a midshipman leading the way. It was indeed Mister Thurlow. Jenkins wanted to groan. Was there any incident of supposed trouble where that little snot wasn't involved somehow? As if it had not been bad enough that he'd gotten Mister Hamilton disrated!

"What is the trouble here, Mister Thurlow?" Alderbury wanted to know.

The midshipman saluted. "These men are drunk, sir. Drunk and disrespectful."

"Indeed. Your names, lads."

The taller of the two seamen looked wary. "Merton, sir. Tom Merton."

"Ben Nicholls, sir," said his companion.

"Ah, yes. My apologies, lads. You are in my division. What is all this about?"

"Dunno, sir. We was just checkin' the starboard pinrail when Mister Thurlow come up wantin' to know what we was 'bout. We saluted him an' told him, decent-like. Then he says we're both drunk, sir. We ain't had a drop since Up Spirits yesterday."

"Is that your charge, Mister Thurlow?"

"It is, sir."

Merton scuffed a foot over the deck and said, "We ain't drunk, sir. Not disrespectful, neither. Ain't right to be, sir."

"Are you calling me a liar, you miserable - "

"Mister Thurlow," Alderbury snapped. "Contain yourself! Come up, you lads."

The two seamen and their escort moved out of Jenkins' peripheral vision, but he knew Lieutenant Alderbury's ways well enough to know what he was about. This charge of drunkenness could easily be dismissed by smelling each sailor's breath. If there was no odour of grog, they were not drunk. Simple.

Heavy footfalls on the aft ladder caused him to look straight forward again, where he'd been very slightly turning his head to the right, to better hear what was going on above and behind him. It was Captain Leaford. Oh hell. This was not going to end well. For anyone.

"Trouble, Lieutenant?"

"No sir," came Alderbury's response. "A simple misunderstanding is all."

"Explain."

"Mister Thurlow believed these men to be drunk and disrespectful. They are not drunk and I have never known them to be disrespectful to any officer. It is, sir, a case of - "

"Mister Matheson," the captain interrupted. "Confine these men below. Defaulters at eight bells." There was a pause as the boatswain collected his two bewildered prisoners and led them below. Jenkins contained a curse. Barely. What perfect rubbish. There was no case to answer here. None at all.

"In future, Mister Alderbury, I will thank you not to question the judgement of me or my officers in public. It is not your place to do anything but accept a charge that is levelled and act accordingly. Is that understood?"

"With respect, sir, no. Nicholls and Merton are in my division and are two of the steadiest hands aboard. I have no reason to - "

"When an officer makes an issue with the men known to you, Lieutenant, it is your duty to take action to resolve it, not question that officer's judgement. Any man who is found to be drunk on duty is to be confined in irons at once. That is the action I expect to be taken. Is that clear?"

"Aye aye, sir," Alderbury said, sounding almost defiant. Poor beggar. This was so stupid. None of what Leaford said made any sense. 'Take action to resolve' an issue. Hadn't that been what the second luff had been doing? Or, no. Jenkins corrected himself. He hadn't ordered the two sailors arrested. That was his error. Clearly.

Up forrard, he saw Tom Mayden glance aft and say something. It was hard to make out what, though it probably wasn't anything complimentary. Then it occurred to him that with two more topmen shortly to be on sicklist, there were likely to be two more Marines pulled from their usual duties to work on deck. That must be what Mayden was grumbling about. If so, Jenkins shared his irritation. They were already shorthanded enough, with seven men on sicklist.

The sentry at the belfry stirred and the gleaming brass bell pealed. Three paired rings. Six bells. Another hour until the watches changed. He breathed out a silent sigh. There would be more floggings then. It was a damned unnecessary routine. If it kept up after they'd joined the New York squadron, he had little doubt there would be men who'd run, should Cornwall be ordered to send out shore parties. Which, of course, the captain would denounce as a lack of discipline and take out his anger on the crew. A never-ending cycle.

He closed his eyes briefly and suppressed a shiver. There could be no blaming anyone who might run. If he were a seaman, he'd probably do the same. Anything to get away from the misery that was this ship.

~

"If 'ee got zummat to zay, g'an an' zay et," Symon Higgins said.

Wide-eyed, Sam Partridge, one of the ship's boys, clutched at his shapeless wool hat. "I's t'tell ya that Cob Chase'd like a word, iffen it pleases ya."

Every eye on the messdeck turned in Higgins' direction. By now, they all knew about the strained relations between him and Chase. It was instantly suspicious that the topman should send a messenger to Higgins, wanting 'a word'. Even if, after yesterday, he was not in any shape to be a threat on his own.

"Doozee naow. 'E can coome aft, loike, an' 'ave et, then."

"Ehm, he sez he won't."

There was a shiver of movement from James Bell, not unlike the slight stirring of a giant rousing itself from sleep. Higgins glanced in Bell's direction before deciding not to involve the Newcastleman this time around. "I bain't 'un fer t'be zummoned no moor," he told Partridge. "Gooee an' tell him that frum I."

Partridge swallowed nervously and scarpered. When he passed on Higgins' reply, the reception was not likely to be warm but that was not Higgins' concern. He turned his attention back to the stocking he'd been darning but within a minute was interrupted by Partridge's return.

"He sez he won't, an' he sez yer a swab what can't e'en show a bitta cor-tess-ee."

"He wot - " Higgins' first reaction was anger, but he was quick to squash it. He wouldn't let Chase draw him out like that. "I bain't a-gooin'. 'E can boil his'n head."

For a moment, Partridge gaped at him before scurrying off forrard. He had not expected a reply of that sort and doubtless feared the inevitable reaction to Higgins' refusal. As well he might, really. Not that Higgins was of a mind to care.

"He ain't gonna like that," Kit Davenport remarked idly.

"Bain't a probl'm fer I," was Higgins' shrugging response.

David Shaner glanced briefly up from the letter he was writing. "You shouldn't stir up any more trouble with the likes of him, mate. It isn't healthy." Such a statement from anyone else would have been met with scorn, but from Shaner it had meaning born from recent experience. Still, Higgins frowned in outward disinterest.

"Iffen he has a probl'm, 'e can coome aft his'n self."

"An' I done jes' that. No more'a this backsyfore." Cob Chase had padded silently up and now stood at the end of the mess table, trying admirably to carry himself as though his back did not pain him at all. He did not, Higgins noted, look toward where James Bell sat, though the stone-faced Newcastleman was watching Chase with cold intent.

"What dooee want, then?"

Chase kept his hands stuffed into his pockets, "Our bizness. I ain't wanted this to be a great ol' feudin', see. Leastaways I weren't 'spectin' Bull yon to come round to gimme a cullopin'. Quait, cully, What I'm sayin's you gut bettermost of me. Me, mind, but not the boys. What-all I told you afore's still true. If'n you lot cussant sort yerselves out, the boys'll do it for you. I ain't sorry we fetched you a lacin', Shaner, but mebbe we oughter done it when yer back weren't all-over raw."

"I think you'd best go back forrard," Shaner told him.

"Oh, aye? Don't be furgettin' that - "

There was a scrape of shoes on the deck as Bell stood up from his mess table. Chase was not swift enough in turning to see who was moving before Bell clapped two hands down onto the seaman's shoulders. A moment later, Chase was being removed from the Marines' messdeck by his collar, his bare feet not even brushing the deck and his protests limited to verbal invective.

"There'll be trouble quick if he's not careful."

Higgins scoffed. "Bell bain't a gibby. 'E'll whup harf of 'em wi'out a-blinkin."

"Ye're oot yer heid," Lachlan declared with a shake of his head. He was sitting at the next table aft, his musket and cleaning kit laid out on the table. Mister Hamilton sat beside him, his small hands busy cleaning the musket's lock.

"I bain't. Iffen Bell kills 'im, it'll be the better fer us'ns."

"Aye, but tha's nae th' same's him gettin' set oon by half tha' lot. Far'd we be then?"

" 'Ee's turnt soft." Higgins stared at him in disbelief.

"I ain't. But we ken fit Chase's liek. Nae good'll coome o' ha'ing him kilt."

There was a grunt from George Swift. "Averythin' lately's been all along of him, Sammy. Or near anuff."

"I means Bell," said Lachlan in irritation.

"Er, Sam," Mister Hamilton piped up. Higgins grimaced to himself, aware that he could not think of the former middie in any other way. The lad peered up nervously at them and it occurred to Higgins that their talk might be fearsome to the poor nipper. "Ye won't actually..."

"Nae, lad. He jist go' a lesson taught him."

"But will he - "

The sudden clatter of shoes on the aft ladder cut him off. The men barely had time to start rising to their feet before Captain Collins was barking out for the fit men of the detachment to gather their kit in readiness for punishment parade. Those on sick list, he told them, were to get their off-watch rig on and fall in alongside the waisters. The captain eyed Bell, who was just returning from the forrard part of the messdeck, but made no comment.

"C'mon, sir," Shaner said with a forced airiness, "I've heard there's a picnic being laid for us in the sunshine. A finer day for it couldn't be desired."

A hesitant grin tugged at the corner of Mister Hamilton's mouth at the jest. The youngster stood back and unconsciously fidgeted while the sick list Marines pulled on the grey jackets and red-faced caps that comprised the bulk of their off-watch rigs.

"Stay near us, sir, an' we'll keep Mister Thurlow off you." Davenport was holding out a blue woolen cap to the ex-middie, who took it with some reluctance. "So's you look more like a ship's boy," he explained, noticing the confused expression on the lad's face.

"But what - "

"Marines for parade!" Captain Collins called, coming out of the gunroom with his hat fitted squarely on his head and his sword at his side. There was an immediate eruption of movement as the fit men of the detachment headed forrard toward the arms locker, where they'd draw their muskets and cartridge boxes. The Marines on sick list, meanwhile, settled back at their mess tables to await the piping of All Hands.

It wouldn't be a long wait either. All the same, Mister Hamilton perched carefully on the edge of his bench, mindful of his still-healing backside, and asked of Davenport, "Is it true you're a Spaniard?"

"Half-Spanish. My mum's from Andalucía – near Gibraltar. She met my da there. They married an' went back to Falmouth after my da lost his foot. The rest's history."

"Was he a Marine too?"

Davenport appeared to think for a moment before shaking his head. "No, sir," he said. Then he grinned. "He were the boatswain of the Norfolk, Cap'n Forbes. Lost his foot and almost his leg to a Spanish roundshot at Toulon. Bit ironic, that!"

The others stared at him in a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and astonishment. "Why-fer bain't 'ee - "

The piercing chorus of boatswain's calls rent the air, accompanied by the summons of "All hands aft to witness punishment!" being bellowed down the hatchways. Davenport grinned again and winked at Hamilton as the sick list men hastened to the aft ladder.

"I ain't a sailor, Higgins, 'cause I get sea-sick!"

A fleeting giggle from Hamilton and smirks from Higgins and Shaner showed that his jest was recognised and appreciated for what it was. Lachlan was simply shaking his head, but all outward signs of mirth evaporated as the group reached the weatherdeck. The frigate's company was mustering by divisions, the supervising petty officers checking their lists to be sure every man who should be was present. Davenport and his companions fell in with the waisters of the larboard watch and immediately made themselves stand out by coming briskly to attention after facing aft. For his part, Mister Hamilton stood as close as he reasonably could to Lachlan, his blue wool cap helping him appear less obvious.

"Can ye teach me - " Mister Hamilton began to ask in an undertone, but fell fearfully silent when Captain Leaford stepped up to the quarterdeck rail.

"I grow severely weary of repeating myself," the stone-faced captain said. "The occurrence of countless instances of drunkenness, of neglect, of slack, would try the nerves of any officer in my position. I am prepared to tolerate it no more. The next man who is found to be guilty of those offences will find himself confined in irons to await court-martial when we join with the New York squadron. Perhaps the passing of a couple of capital sentences will drive the lesson home to you!"

The barest shiver of disgust rolled through the assembled crew and Davenport belatedly realised that the Marines paraded behind the ship's officers had their bayonets fixed. That, perhaps more than anything else, showed how bad things had gotten since Leaford had come aboard. Not even a month had passed and already the ship was in danger of coming apart at the deck seams. Only getting up with the New York squadron might ease matters, though Davenport was not sure it would mean much in the long run.

With such thoughts in the forefront of his mind, it was easy to tune out the reading of the relevant Articles of War and the subsequent ordering-up of the two prisoners. Tom Merton and Ben Nicholls. Those poor sods... even though he was already at attention, Davenport's back straightened just the barest bit. Nicholls and Merton were Yankees. They'd also been caught at their supposed crime by Mister Thurlow. By Christ, why hadn't the details been plain to him before?

Somebody nudged a little too obviously against Davenport's side and from the corner of his eye, he spotted the sun-faded blue of a seaman's jacket. The man inched half a step forward and upon seeing the sailor's features, it was all Davenport could do not to sigh.

"Don't say a thing," Cob Chase muttered, his voice low enough that Davenport had to strain to hear it. "I know 'bout Toad. An' yer drummers. Clever of you settin' 'em out to watch all the ship's boys. I got lads stayin' near Toad constant-like now. He ain't no more use to Mister bloody Thurlow."

Which only meant a brief relief, at best. The vile little midshipman would find new men or boys to bully and do his spying. At least, Davenport acknowledged, his plan to counter Toad McCray's snooping had worked. Chase was silent a moment, watching the gruesome spectacle of Merton's flogging. Then he leaned in slightly and continued. "Word is the middies'll have the gunroom lot to dine this evenin'. Cap'n'll have the deck. If there was to be a bit of quiet skylarkin' on the messdeck..."

"Deck there!"

Mister Colburn's arm did not falter despite the unexpected hail and the final lash fell solidly onto Tom Merton's mangled back with a meaty slap. Every eye, excepting of course Merton's, turned aloft toward the masthead lookout. It was surprising how swiftly they had all forgotten about that other ship!

"Deck there! She's British. A sloop!" The seaman paused, leaning recklessly out from his perch. "Signallin'!"

Captain Leaford didn't waste a second. "Mister Slater, jump to your duties! Find out what she's flying. If it's the private signal, ready the response and then make our number." He waited just long enough for the midshipman to scurry uncomfortably for the shrouds before snapping, "Cut that man down and seize the next one up!"

"He likes all this, he does," Chase muttered. "Cruel bastard. Harky now. I'll come aft when the gunroom lot're down on the orlop. Be safe to carry on then, so long's lads keep it quiet-lak. Anan?"

He could not, of course, reply to that and Chase knew it. The topman gave him a final nudge before stepping just slightly away so it wasn't obvious he'd been speaking. It had been a short one-sided exchange yet Davenport's mind felt full from it. To know that Toad McCray had been dealt with harmlessly was a relief, but he was not sure what in the devil Chase meant by his references to a skylarking having been arranged. Was the topman having him on? Or was he out for revenge after the beating Bell had given him? Davenport longed to ask but could not. At least not right then.

"Twelve!" Mister Simcoe declared tonelessly. "Sentence is delivered, sir."

"Cut him down. Clear this deck!"

The boatswain and his mates were immediately in motion. "Dismiss!"

Davenport relaxed from his rigid stance and turned toward Chase, intending to demand a clearer explanation from him, but the seaman had vanished. God damn it. He could not go looking for his fellow Cornishman either. He had to settle for making arrangements of his own on the assumption that Chase's plan was innocent. Of course, if it wasn't, Davenport had to plan for that as well.

"Tate," he said, having waited until he got back down to the messdeck before marshalling his forces. "An' Mattie. C'mere. I think somethin's in the wind."

The two Marines drew in close at once, shadowed by Higgins, Lachlan, and Shaner. That was no surprise, but their part in his plan would come after Tate and Barrett's. Davenport glanced casually over his shoulder toward the seamen's part of the messdeck. There was no immediate sign of Cob Chase but that did not mean anything.

"I've heard there's to be a quiet skylarkin' today, while the officers are dinin' in the middies' berth. Seems we're to host it. It bein' quiet'll mean no music but I think a coupla songs will suit, so long's we keep hushed with 'em. Reckon that's somethin' for you to figure out, Davey. But... the rub is, I dunno as this is all gonna come off so nicely."

Lachlan curled his lip. "It ain't, once tha' terror o' a middie sticks his oar in."

"Aye, he's a ronk bad'n," Tate agreed.

"He is, s'why I got a plan. Now close up here an' listen..."

~

Four pairs of eyes were on Mattie Barrett as he carefully braided two long strips of leather around the handle of a pewter mug. The mug had previously been a spare, kept in the purser's storeroom, until drawn as part of Mister Hamilton's issue of seaman's gear. The slops had been too large for the lad but some swift alterations, carried out by Sam Lachlan and George Durham, had sorted that out. Despite having been placed in Cob Chase's mess, the ex-midshipman spent much of his free time in Lachlan's company, taking comfort from the familiar accent, as well as enjoying respite from seamanship lessons.

Hamilton sat next to Barrett, watching the Dorsetman's deft fingers at work, apparently unhindered by the bandages that covered his palms. Lachlan, Shaner, and Higgins were at the table as well, their own seperate tasks temporarily forgotten as they watched Barrett work. It was not unlike seeing something artistic being formed out of something previously ordinary.

"It ain't magick," Barrett said without looking up.

"Nae, no' if ye kens 'ow t'dae it," Lachlan countered cheerfully.

Silence followed that, until Barrett slipped the two ends back over the last turn of the braid and carefully pulled them tight. He held the mug up so he could examine his handiwork before grinning and holding it out to Hamilton. "Thurr y'be, sir."

"Thank ye, er, Mattie." The youngster ran his fingers lightly over the neat leather braids with an expression akin to awe on his face.

"Amazing what a fellow can learn on a farm, eh?"

Barrett flexed his hands and shrugged. "Wurrn't hard. You cudda done it too, Davey."

"But so well as you? I doubt it."

Abruptly, Hamilton set the mug down and, with a hasty " 'Scuse me," tumbled off the bench to dash away forrard. His departure was so unexpected that the three Marines were left to stare at each other in dumbfounded shock. Lachlan looked around to be sure no one unwanted was coming near, but there were only Marines nearby.

"The devvil's he gone - " Barrett began, but interrupted himself when Hamilton came hurrying back, a small linen sack clutched in both hands.

"Er, I got this yesterday, frum... one of the lads," the lad blurted out, setting the sack down onto the table. "A small repayment for my mug."

"I don't be needin' repayin', sir. A bit o' kindness shuddn't."

"Are ye sure? I don't mind - "

Shaner reached for the sack. "What's in it... molasses candy? That'll be from Smith. Mattie's got a point, sir. Not everything needs to be repaid. But. There are six pieces here. Would you object if we each took one, sir, and declared it even?"

"Er, yes. That's fine." The lad looked grateful for the suggestion, which made Shaner suspect that it had offered Hamilton a way out of his near-embarrassment at Barrett's refusal. Shaner passed one piece of the lumpy-looking candy to each of them, took one himself, and with a grin slipped it into his mouth. The warm, hearty flavour of it struck him at once and he rolled the candy around on his tongue, nodding in approval. Smith had good taste.

"Sir, I gots a question, if you dusnt mind... ehm, why-fer was you turned avore the mast, sir?"

"Mattie!" Shaner said sharply, looking affronted.

Barrett held up his bandaged hands defensively. "I ain't a-wantin' to be foathy, lak. But... c'mon, Davey, iffen we's gonna be 'tectin' him, hasn't we oughter know - "

"What happened is simple. Mister Thurlow's tale-bearin' brought it on. It ain't the best of things but I reckon Mister Hamilton's the safer for it. Anyway," Davenport glanced over his shoulder, nodded, and turned back toward them. "It don't matter. Here, Mister Hamilton. I hear tell you've a true voice in you, sir."

The boy nodded, almost shamefully. "Aye. I might."

"Do you, sir?" Shaner's attention was on the former midshipman, a gleam in his eye that meant some prime entertainment was in the offing. "What's your range?"

"Er... I don't know what ye mean?"

"I suppose you'd be a treble, sir, since your voice hasn't broken yet. What do you know for songs?"

A confused look was on Mister Hamilton's face. "A few hymns, frum the kirk."

"What about 'The Ages of Man' or 'Johnie Scot'? No? Hmm. 'Greensleeves', then?"

"A braw toon, tha' is," Lachlan remarked, slinging a leg over the bench so he could sit sideways on it, his back toward the rest of the messdeck. "Gonna warble fur us, Davey?"

"Mister Hamilton and I will, if he's game."

"G'an on, sir, will you?"

"Oh do, sir. It'll be a fine ol' treat."

"Aye, laddie, dinna let him ha' a' th' glory."

Bewildered by the encouragement and hopeful looks, Mister Hamilton coughed nervously and avoided meeting anyone's gaze. "Er, i-i-if ye thinks it'll be all right..."

"Oh aye, sir, there'll be no harm in it, if we keep our voices low." Shaner swallowed the remaining bit of his molasses candy, chased it with a mouthful of brackish water from Barrett's wooden mug, and rolled his shoulders back experimentally. "We'll start with 'Greensleeves', sir, then go on to 'Barbara Allen' – ah, you know that one? Good lad! If we can manage a third, it'll be 'The Drum Major'."

"Aye. That'll be fine. Er, when ye're ready?"

Shaner nodded. "Ready, sir. Remember, keep your voice low, or the officers will hear and we'll all be for it. Right. Draw a breath, sir, and we're off."

There was the briefest of pauses, during which Mister Hamilton, gripping the table as if to steady his nerves, breathed deeply in. Davenport glanced around the messdeck and was pleased to see Tate and Frazier in their allotted places. Good lads. Whatever defensive arrangements Chase had made were unknown but Davenport was happier knowing he had his fellow Marines keeping a weather eye out. Then Shaner was singing, his voice, ordinarily a firm tenor but now pitched low, seeming to roll easily up from somewhere deep within. Mister Hamilton's was lighter and not a little hesitant. But he had likely never performed to an audience before.

"Alas, my love you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
And I have loved you so long
Delighting in your company

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

I have been ready at your hand
to grant whatever you would crave;
I have both wagered life and land
Your love and good will for to have."

They were a true pairing, Davenport decided. Though they were both keeping their voices hushed, word had obviously spread about the performance. This must be what Chase had meant. So long as none of the onlookers fetched an officer, it hardly mattered who came drifting aft to listen.

"Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

I bought the kerchers to thy head
That were wrought fine and gallantly
I kept thee both at board and bed
Which cost my purse well favouredly.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my Lady Greensleeves."

There were more voices rising alongside the original two for the chorus, including Davenport's. Even Lachlan, who had always claimed to disdain such things, was joining in. It was a rougher harmony than the song might otherwise have merited but in the circumstances, it was a welcome sign that not all the spirit had yet been knocked out of the crew.

"Greensleeves, now farewell! Adieu!
God I pray to prosper thee;
For I am still thy lover true
Come once again and love me.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my Lady Greensleeves."

Unsurprisingly, Shaner drew out the last note a heartbeat or two longer than Mister Hamilton, but that was typical of him. The performance was a success, if the grins on every man's face were anything to judge by. Chase's idea was working, Davenport admitted grudgingly.

Shaner lifted a hand to direct attention to his youthful partner, who was blushing fiercely. "Our next piece is a tune by name of 'Barbara Allen', which I think many of you know. Shall we begin, sir?"

A jerky bobbing nod was all the response he got, but it was enough. Shaner counted off from three and launched straight into the song, which the gathered crowd of Marines and seamen joined in to at once. Even the gunner and the carpenter were present but were carefully keeping to the very back of the group. If standing officers felt bold enough to be so close by, surely there could be no danger.

"Y'damned bandy hewitt," Tate abruptly snapped, lunging across the table he was sitting at to try catching his mug of water before it could roll onto the deck.

Frazier, who had knocked the mug over, sneered. "Sarves thee reight, leevin' it ther!"

The pre-arranged warning brought an immediate halt to the skylarking. Shaner hardly blinked but had two papers in hand, the song abandoned mid-verse. Letters had been gathered up beforehand and left on the table, and it was one of these that Shaner began to read, smoothly picking up from his interrupted singing. Captain Collins was coming aft along the messdeck, his stride brisk, but before he was close enough to speak, the ear-piercing shriek of boatswains' calls split the air.

"All hands, all hands, to take in sail!"

It might have been a relief except that it meant an instant clearing of the messdeck as the off-watch raced topside. Meaning-laden glances were exchanged between the sick list Marines, who were each aware that, for all their efforts, the skylarking must have been discovered and reported. Inside a minute, only they remained on the messdeck, with their stone-faced captain bearing swiftly down on them. Mister Hamilton shrank visibly against Lachlan, but none of the Marines themselves moved so much as a muscle.

"Shaner. I'll see you aft. Immediately."

"Sir." With a barely-suppressed grimace, Shaner eased himself up from the table and walked stiffly aft, following along in Collins' wake. Damn it, thought Davenport. This was madness. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd gotten to his feet and was following Shaner aft. Getting involved would only lead to trouble but he knew that letting Shaner go it alone was just as bad. Anyway, the interrupted skylark had been Davenport's idea in the first place – at least in part. His decision to follow was made quickly enough that he was in step just behind Shaner when the gunroom door was pulled shut behind them. It was not until Captain Collins turned around to face them that Davenport got the first inkling that intervening might not have been the wisest thing he'd ever done.

"I do not recall summoning you aft as well, Private Davenport." The expression on their captain's face was hard as stone. "You are dismissed."

Davenport did not budge. "The skylark was my idea, sir," he said. "All that Shaner did was volunteer his voice."

The captain fixed him with a glare. "Indeed? I'm grateful to you for admitting your responsibility for this newest display of foolery. That does not excuse Private Shaner in any respect, of course. Did you not learn from the outcome of the last skylarking?"

"The lesson I drew from that isn't the one you think I did, sir," Shaner answered neutrally. He kept his gaze on the bulkhead behind their captain.

"I'd caution you not to be impertient. This is a very serious matter. It is nothing less than a flagrant show of disregard for the importance of good discipline and order - "

Good Lord, thought Davenport in sudden, hot disgust. This was contemptible talk to come from their captain, who had been punished in his own turn for challenging Leaford over his behaviour. "With respect, sir," the Cornishman interrupted, "you can't have good discipline and order without morale to match it. We ain't allowed to skylark, we ain't allowed our grog, we ain't even got NCOs now. We get sent to the grating if we so much's listen to a bit of storytellin'. We're to be put before court-martial if we're in any further trouble, whatever sorta trouble that might be. 'Midst of all that, sir, if we has a a bit of singin', quiet-like, tryin' to keep our spirits up, I don't see the harm in it."

"That is entirely too forward of you, sir!" Collins snapped, jabbing a finger in Davenport's direction. "If any example of indiscipline is needed, that tirade is a fine one! You may consider yourself exceptionally fortunate that you are on the sick list, Private Davenport, as it spares you from being confined!"

"You're so wide of the mark, sir," Davenport countered. He ignored the warning rasp of a cough from Shaner, his temper too fiercely stoked by their captain's all too plain disinterest in seeing reality. They were days from almost certainly going into action and none of them would survive if this was the manner of leadership they would have. "With respect, sir, if the lads have been adrift, it's 'cause we ain't had anybody lookin' out for us anymore. No corporals, no sergeant, and no officer. All that bein' so, we can't be faulted for tryin' to manage things ourselves."

Collins looked on the verge of bursting, such was the redness in his face, but Davenport pressed on. If he gave the captain any chance to speak, he'd be most likely find himself facing a halter on the yardarm. "More'n that, sir, is the simple fact that since we left Antigua, there's been near on forty lads at the gratin'. Forty. In not even a month. We're in a ship with a captain happy to see a man's rib bones every chance he gets, sir, and that sets the mood down here mighty low. Between that, you sackin' Mackie, Jonesy, and Sarn't Devlin, and sayin' you'd not take a man-jack ashore to fight – beggin' every pardon, sir, but if you're wantin' good discipline and order from us, it might be best to give us a bit of respect back."

A long, hot silence followed that. Davenport did not move so much as a muscle. He was keenly aware that he had been entirely too freely spoken but every word had needed saying. Something had to put some sense back into their officer or they were all doomed. Certainly thing could not go on as they were. The rebuke, when it came, was not the immediate explosion he anticipated but it was arguably the more dangerous for that.

"It has never been a habit of mine to accept boldness from a private Marine. Not before this cruise and certainly not during it. As you are both on the sick list, I cannot have either of you flogged, which is the only piece of good fortune either of you are due. You, Private Davenport, are from this moment relieved of any and all duties, to include those in the sick berth. You may remain on the messdeck unless you go to the heads, but that is all, until I decide otherwise. Be absolutely assured that if you ever address me in this manner again, I shall have you drummed out of the Corps. You, Private Shaner, may have no interaction whatever with either Mister Hamilton or with Private Davenport, unless it is in the presence of a commissioned officer or myself. Any further outbursts of this sort will have rather more severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

It was all Davenport could do to stop himself swearing. The captain had not listened to a word. "As clear as Irish crystal, sir," he said stonily. There was nothing more he could do, however. In truth, he had done far more than good sense should have allowed, but all of it had needed to be said by somebody. At least he could be happy for having tried.

"You are dis – "

"Detail!" Shaner cut in, his voice like flint. It seemed that he felt too insulted enough to tempt fate. " 'Shun! To the right about, face! Quick, march!"

Davenport stepped smoothly off, passing through the gunroom door which the eavesdropping sentry had hastily opened. He did not even look in Shaner's direction as the two parted ways immediately outside the gunroom. It went without saying that Collins' order was utterly absurd but it was still an order and by now, they all knew what happened when an officer even suspected that an order was not being obeyed. The Cornishman headed for his mess table and, on sitting, ignored the questioning glance from San Lachlan. He was in no mood to explain what had just happened. In some ways he was not sure he could. What he did know was that this was the first time he wished he'd never gone for a Marine and it was not a feeling he liked much at all.

~

"Major Collins, may I have a word?"

It was damned hard to suppress a sigh. The question had come from Doctor Finch, who had only just come into the gunroom. Judging by the look on the surgeon's face, the desired word would not be a pleasant one either. This was not what Collins needed. Not so soon after being so shockingly berated by one of his own men. He was not happy with his own reaction to that, purely instinctive as it had been, and now doubtlessly here came a second roasting. That this roasting would at least come from an equal rather than a subordinate was no comfort – had he not endured enough for one day?

Collins sat back straighter in his chair but could not quite muster a polite smile. "Of course, sir."

"On deck, if you please." Finch looked pointedly around the gunroom, which was empty but for them and Hallett, the gunroom steward. Clearly the surgeon knew the restrictions placed on Collins' freedom of conversation by the ship's captain. His apparent thoughtfulness was not wholly welcome, however. The 'word' he desired was better had in private, which was more easily pretended in the gunroom than it was on deck. There was nothing else for it. Collins rose wearily to his feet, collecting his discarded coat from the table once he was standing.

Finch waited by the door until he had tugged the coat on, then he led the way out and thence up the ladder. Perhaps tellingly, the Marines nearest the ladder were slow to rise to their feet on spotting their officer. It was a slip Collins ignored. Topside, the sun offered only a weak sort of warmth and the brisk southeasterly wind sent his queue flapping against his shoulders. The surgeon picked his way around the duty watch, who were just coming down from sail trimming, the foc's'le his destination. It was an interesting choice – or perhaps not, Collins supposed. The quarterdeck was entirely out of bounds. Not the least owing to the fact that Mister Midshipman Morse had the watch.

"You will know by now that we are expected to join with the New York squadron tomorrow," the surgeon began, settling himself against the larboard rail, his gaze turned outward at the slate-grey sea. "It means action is imminent. I believe you may agree that, in its present state, the ship's complement of Marines are in no way fit to be sent on any kind of detached duty. That needs immediate correction, which I believe you also may agree with."

None of that was anything Collins did not already know. He had been trying not to think about the conference presently being held in the capain's cabin. A conference to which he had rather pointedly not been invited. As to the state of the detachment... "Whether I agree or not is immaterial, sir. The relief of the situation is beyond my control. The men have simply lost their discipline."

"Have they?" Finch regarded him sceptically. "I should like to know one instance of indiscipline. True, proper indiscipline."

Lord above, where to even begin? There had been so many in recent days. "Private Shaner presents several examples. Singing, storytelling... there is also Private Bell and his attacking of Cob Chase. Corporals McIntyre and Jones, and Sergeant Devlin, failing to maintain control over their sections. Privates Davenport and Barrett having hoarded grog. Need I continue, sir?"

The surgeon was shaking his head. "Those are examples of poor judgement at worst. Shall we review each case in turn? Private Shaner is, you doubtless know, a man of the stage. He is ideally suited to provide support to the morale of the crew. Each of the skylarkings he was involved with were held for that purpose. That each of them were interrupted, twice by you, I must point out, undermines the positive effect they were intended to have. Yet he keeps trying, not because he is indisciplined but because he believes, as do I, that keeping the men's spirits up is more important a goal.

"Private Bell... his was a deplorable action, I'll grant, but he was exacting revenge for the disgusting ill-use of Private Shaner. I cannot of course condone any violence of that sort but I do understand the motivation for it. Indiscipline it was not. Rather, it was your Marines looking out for each other. Had you not broken your three NCOs, I daresay they would have dealt with the matter quite capably, thus sparing Private Bell from doing so himself. Not having them, however, left Private Bell with no other option.

"Your ranking Marines have been thus only in name, sir. I am not of course a fighting officer but I do recognise when a man's ability to adequately discharge his duties is being doubted and restricted. This is so plainly the case here. Their breaking only proves to the men that they are no more to be trusted. You may be blind to the discontent, but be assured that I am not. It is a situation as much of your own making as of Captain Leaford's. No remedy may of course be expected from the great cabin, but from you? It is not only expected but utterly necessary. Need I continue, sir?"

No, Collins thought thunderously, he did not. What gave Finch the right to speak so? He was merely the ship's surgeon, not, as he so readily admitted, a fighting officer. Certainly he could not know the Marines aboard so well as Collins himself. "I rather think you have said enough, sir," he replied stiffly.

"Have I indeed." Finch did not sound convinced. "I am, of course, responsible for the health of this ship's company. This includes their mental wellbeing, in my opinion, and of late I am convinced that, particularly amongst your Marines, there is a definite gloom and perhaps even a despair. It has been brought on as much by your apparent complicity with the ship's captain as by the ship's captain himself. They do not believe you are on their side so they do what they perceive they must in order to take care of themselves."

It was all he could do to keep still. The absolute nerve of the surgeon...! "Have a care, sir - "

Finch held up a hand. "Before you permit your temper to get the better of your judgement, consider this. When last did any of your Marines address any difficulty to you?"

That question brought him up short. "I - " He realised with cold, heavy suddenness that he did not know. His inability to coax forward even half a memory of such an occasion was embarrassing. Not to mention completely illuminating. But that was the surgeon's intent, wasn't it, and he had to acknowledge Finch's deftly driving that point home. "It has been some time, certainly."

"Indeed. It is not at all a matter of indiscipline, you may find, but one of mutual mistrust. The men do not believe you are fighting their corner and, in turn, you do not give them the benefit of faith that they can do their duty without stifling oversight. It is a situation that can be remedied but that remedy must, I think, come from the officer first."

"I do not believe that recent incidents can so readily be forgiven, particularly by me," Collins replied, recalling Private Davenport's barbed insolence in the previous watch.

"It is not a matter of forgiveness, I believe, but rather one of setting the past where it belongs and taking care that future relations may go as they should. Nothing can be done about those things which have already happened and you may only provoke further resentment in the attempt."

That was something to consider, perhaps. Collins leaned against the rail and let his gaze slide absently over the white ruffle of the waves rolling to meet them. He had to admit that much of what Finch said made sense. Once, naturally, he tamped down on his anger at the man's apparent temerity and allowed himself to actually contemplate his remarks. It rankled mightily, it had to be admitted, yet there was no denying that the surgeon was uncomofortably perceptive. His statements needed a deal of pondering, without doubt. More than he had time for at that moment.

His thoughts turned again to Private Davenport's outburst, wholly unbidden, and so close in the wake of Doctor Finch's sharp dissection of the detachment's predicament, Davenport's own comments seemed suddenly less insubordinate. If anything, they had been a less politic version of what the surgeon had said. Were things truly so plain to everyone except him? This thought was a galling one, not least because he had always liked to think he kept a fairly good eye on the mood of his men. When had he begun to fail in that regard? More to the point, how did he even begin to make it right?

"I might suggest that less time be spent on ruminations and more on actions," offered Finch, when Collins had not spoken after some minutes. "There is no more than a day between us and the New York squadron, and it can only add to the harm already done if this ship's Marines are not in a ready state to be sent to fight."

"Yes, of course." Finch was in the right of it, he knew. In more ways than the most apparent, at that. It was no help that the day was getting on, either. The second dog would end soon and that meant relieving the sentries. Collins realised suddenly that he did not relish that task. Not anymore. Damn it all. He breathed out a long, tired sigh and levered himself away from the rail. This was not a mess he wanted to sort through but he was as responsible for his creation as anyone. There was no longer any escaping that knowledge.

"May I ask, sir, what has prompted this speech from you?" Collins stopped, partway turned away toward the forrard ladder, to ask the question that had come abruptly to his tongue.

The surgeon faced him after a brief hesitation, his expression impassive. "My foremost duty is to the men of the lower deck," was his reply. "They cannot speak up for themselves and I would be doing them the greatest of disservices if I did not intervene in some way to resolve this ridiculous situation. If I cannot stop the odious practise of flogging itself, I can certainly see that the frequency of its use on this ship is reduced, for you must agree that the lash has been employed with unacceptable regularity."

That was plain truth indeed. No man aboard could know it better. "It certainly has. But – in any King's ship, the captain's authority has no equal. How could you hope to achieve that end – "

The briefest of smiles tugged at the corners of Finch's mouth. "The Navy is a service in which interest figures prominently, is it not? I beg you will excuse me. There are patients below I must see to. Good afternoon, Major."

He could only watch the surgeon depart and feel decidedly confused. What had that remark meant? It was hard to fathom as the motivation for Finch's intervening. Perhaps it was not worth pondering. There was too much else to think about. Sighing again, Collins moved toward the forrard ladder. He stil did not quite know how to set the detachment back to rights but any attempt toward that end would begin with summoning his ranking Marines for a word.

The off-watch seamen on the forrard half of the messdeck drew back toward the shadows as he came down the ladder, with the men nearest touching curled knuckles to their foreheads. It struck him as a grudging sort of deference and for a moment he felt a flicker of unease, but quickly squashed it. Any disquiet amongst the foremast hands was not, he recalled being firmly told, something for him to worry about. Further aft, the handful of off-watch Marines likewise spotted his approach and rose to their feet almost in unison. The flicker of unease returned when he noted that none of them appeared willing to even look in his direction, but perhaps that was only his imagination?

It passed through his mind to summon the three former NCOs aft but he dismissed that thought as being too hasty. He had entirely too much to consider before returning any rank to anyone.