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barefoot_bardTitle: Recruits
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters George Thompson and Sergeant Sweetman belong tosharpiefan. All other characters appearing within belong to me.
Summary: Show the Colours/Dogwatches AU. An old sergeant oversees the training of new Marine recruits. Chatham, 1797.
Author's Note: This is the result of a plotbunny attack. Any errors within are my own.
More recruits. Or, more accurately, more starry-eyed boys wanting to be Marines. They seemed to get younger every year. Well. That or he was getting older. Frederick Devlin sighed and watched the gaggle of youngsters try to fall into some semblance of order. It was less depressing to think they were getting younger every year. Conveniently ignoring the advance of his own age was important.
He folded his arms over his chest and sighed quietly. There was no escaping the reality that it seemed like most of the recruits that came through here were boys. He’d hazard a guess that the perhaps half of them were no older than seventeen. This was a judgment passed by simple observation, of course, but it was a hard one to dispute. There were plenty of proper men in the mix as well, but on the whole, Devlin paid them little mind. They were more likely to know what they were getting into than the lads were.
Another sergeant appeared from the guardhouse, a paper in one hand. Despite himself, Devlin scowled. There was precious little he liked about Sergeant Sweetman. The younger Marine had been drilling recruits for nearly two years and to all accounts was a steady hand, but Devlin had disliked him on sight. He’d been a long time in the Corps and had learned how to recognise a bad apple when a bad apple appeared. Most of the time, he was able to sort out said bad apples, but Sweetman was one he couldn’t get rid of.
“Stand still when a sergeant’s talkin’!” Sweetman barked, and the nervous recruits stopped their fidgeting. Devlin watched as Sweetman went about the business of demonstrating how the would-be Marines were to stand when at attention, and had a feeling the lesson would need repeating at least twice before the recruits began to understand it.
With a sigh, Devlin turned his back on the little groups scattered around the parade square. He couldn’t hang about too long. There was far too much work to do. Much as he’d like to supervise Sweetman’s drill sessions, it was impossible. Especially when much of Devlin’s time was occupied with pointless fetching and carrying for Captain Coughlin. The adjutant didn’t seem to understand the concept of using the corporals for this sort of work. Devlin was too old for such nonsense.
Speak of the devil. Here came the captain now, his face set in something that was probably meant to be a scowl. On Coughlin, however, the effect was rather spoiled. He was incapable of holding any expression except cheer. When had even the officers become young and fresh-faced like Coughlin? He’d been a Marine longer than these schoolboys had been alive, for pity’s sake.
“Ah, Sergeant. The colonel desires to inspect the, er, recruits. See to it that they are paraded, could you?”
Devlin thought of the reports he was supposed to deliver to Captain Green. Clearly that was an errand which would have to be delayed. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, saluting. If Captain Coughlin was any use, he could attend the task himself. Then again, this was what happened when promotions were handed out as favours to men who were entirely unfit for them.
“Good fellow,” said Coughlin, his scowl vanishing in an instant. “Jump to it, then. He, er, expects to start it all in a half hour.”
Oh for God’s sake. Where was the warning about that, then? Devlin fumed to himself as the adjutant strode away, blissfully ignorant of his uselessness. Damn it. He turned sharply on his heel and headed back out into the sunlight. It wasn’t often he wished he was back at sea, but this was definitely one of those times.
“On the square!” He bellowed, glad at least he had not lost his capacity to make himself heard to half the country. “Parade for inspection!”
There wasn’t the barest hint of hesitation by any of the sergeants scattered around the parade square. They turned to their respective squads and began barking out the necessary instructions. None of them missed a beat. Not that they would. Of course, their competence was sharply at odds with the shuffling stupidity of their recruits. Devlin cringed inwardly as he watched the clumsy movements as the sergeants shouted and shoved their charges along.
It took far longer than Devlin liked to get the squads formed into something that passed for a parade. For an instant, he wished the inspection wasn’t limited to only the recruits, then he thought it was for the best. There was little sense in embarrassing the working lads. Well. That was it. He reckoned he had a little time to make a quick inspection of his own before the colonel came.
“Sergeants! Stand easy. Recruits. ’Shun!” If he was honest, he hardly cared if the recruits were uncomfortable. They were supposed to be. With his rattan cane gripped in both hands at the small of his back, Devlin strolled forward, effortlessly adopting the casually alert attitude that had served him so well since he’d come aboard here. It was important to make these raw lads understand that no man with shoulder knots and sashes could be seen as anything less than a taskmaster, no matter how he presented himself.
“Chin up,” he said abruptly, stopping to use the end of his cane to nudge one man’s chin to the proper position. “Stop lookin’ ’round, there’s nothin’ you need to be seein’. You.” Devlin resumed his slow walk, only to stop again only two men along. “Stand straight, boy. You shoulda left yer slouchin’ at home. An’ you. Keep yer hands down ’gainst yer trouser legs, yer prick ain’t gone nowhere, ’less you ain’t got one.”
These were Sweetman’s lads, he realised with an internal sigh. He might have guessed. Damnable idiot. Hadn’t he been teaching this lot how to stand properly? The lesson was clearly not yet learned, if these slackers were any sign. Of course, with Sweetman in charge of them, it would take twice as long as usual for them to learn anything.
Devlin stopped again, his gaze flicking over a stocky man with what looked like dampness seeping into the crotch of his trousers. Oh for Christ’s sake. “Name,” he snapped.
The round-faced idiot stared at him in undisguised terror and stammered, “L-L-Lightfoot. Sir.”
“I ain’t a flamin’ officer. Far’s you’re concerned, me name’s Sergeant, you empty-headed bucket of pig swill,” said Devlin. “You a wee bit ’feared, Lightfoot? I don’t ’member anyone sayin’ it was ’llowed fer any bugger in this parade to piss all over himself. So it’s gotta be that you’re ’feared of somethin’. Is you ’feared of somethin’, Lightfoot?”
“N-No, sir. Sergeant.”
Sweetman was going to have to do a bloody lot better than this, Devlin thought. “Must be you’re just spineless. No matter. We’ll grind that outta you. Stand up straight, at least, damn it.” He moved on, despite having plenty more he wanted to say to that particular fool. Honestly. A grown man being so frightened of a little shouting that he’d pissed himself. What a disgrace.
“You,” he said, coming to a stop in front of a boy after three paces away from Lightfoot. This poor sod stuck out like a sore thumb. Short, rail-thin, and wearing a shirt that was clearly too large for him. Another thing that should have been sorted out before now. “Name.”
This one was at least sharp enough to know the proper form of address. “Thompson, Sergeant.”
“You plannin’ to grow into yer kit, or did you nick some other lad’s things? Pull those sleeves up into yer jacket, for God’s sake. Nobody likes a lad what hides his hands.” He frowned. “ ’Less you’re a dipper.”
“I ain’t.” The boy sounded indignant. “Sergeant.”
“Of course you ain’t. Only honest sorts take the King’s shilling. Sort out yer shirt an’ everythin’ else. Bad ’nuff you’re a runt without yer kit bein’ bigger’n a tent on you.” Devlin resumed his walk, privately surprised that Sweetman should let anyone turn out for drill looking like that. Perhaps the younger sergeant hadn’t even seen the lad. Perhaps he was simply losing his edge. Or perhaps he was using it as a means to keep the lad looking sloppy. Well. If the latter was the case, Devlin’s noticing it would mean it couldn’t happen again.
The rest of his inspection was not yet finished when Sergeant Silver stamped his heels together and bawled, “ ’Shun!”
Oh lovely. The colonel was coming out now. Devlin faced about smoothly and marched to meet the approaching officers. It couldn’t have been a half hour since Captain Coughlin had warned him of the impending inspection. How could it have been? More to the point, why didn’t the adjutant have sense enough to be aware that it was courtesy to announce the colonel’s presence himself?
“Sir,” Devlin greeted, coming to a halt two paces away from the colonel and saluting. “Recruits paraded for inspection.”
“Thank you, Sergeant-Major. Well done. You may carry on with your duties.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Only too happy to get back to his interrupted messenger duty, Devlin saluted again and stepped off. Later, he’d have some words with the drilling sergeants, Sweetman in particular, about what should and shouldn’t be permitted to happen. It would be nice if he could have similar words with Captain Coughlin, too. With a sigh, he decided that a visit to the stores was in order too. He had little doubt that Sergeant Sweetman would do nothing to help that twig of a boy sort out his uniforms, or show anything except contempt for the spineless git Lightfoot.
It wasn’t in him to care much about Lightfoot - that one would break, he guessed - but he could see to it Thompson’s clothes were set to rights. The short-sighted twit in charge of Stores wouldn’t know anything was amiss until it was knocking him over the head anyway. To be sure, it was slightly out of line for him to take an interest, but it was just so pointless to give anyone clothes that were clearly a bad fit. That was something Sweetman ought to be attending to, Devlin thought grumpily, even as he detoured to the Stores. That was, of course, if Sweetman had any true worth as a sergeant.
Good Lord but there was never any end to chasing after these youngsters. The old Marine sighed again and remembered what he was supposed to be doing right then. Well. It couldn’t be helped. Captain Green would have to wait just a little longer for those reports, wouldn’t he?
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters George Thompson and Sergeant Sweetman belong to
sharpiefan. All other characters appearing within belong to me.Summary: Show the Colours/Dogwatches AU. An old sergeant oversees the training of new Marine recruits. Chatham, 1797.
Author's Note: This is the result of a plotbunny attack. Any errors within are my own.
More recruits. Or, more accurately, more starry-eyed boys wanting to be Marines. They seemed to get younger every year. Well. That or he was getting older. Frederick Devlin sighed and watched the gaggle of youngsters try to fall into some semblance of order. It was less depressing to think they were getting younger every year. Conveniently ignoring the advance of his own age was important.
He folded his arms over his chest and sighed quietly. There was no escaping the reality that it seemed like most of the recruits that came through here were boys. He’d hazard a guess that the perhaps half of them were no older than seventeen. This was a judgment passed by simple observation, of course, but it was a hard one to dispute. There were plenty of proper men in the mix as well, but on the whole, Devlin paid them little mind. They were more likely to know what they were getting into than the lads were.
Another sergeant appeared from the guardhouse, a paper in one hand. Despite himself, Devlin scowled. There was precious little he liked about Sergeant Sweetman. The younger Marine had been drilling recruits for nearly two years and to all accounts was a steady hand, but Devlin had disliked him on sight. He’d been a long time in the Corps and had learned how to recognise a bad apple when a bad apple appeared. Most of the time, he was able to sort out said bad apples, but Sweetman was one he couldn’t get rid of.
“Stand still when a sergeant’s talkin’!” Sweetman barked, and the nervous recruits stopped their fidgeting. Devlin watched as Sweetman went about the business of demonstrating how the would-be Marines were to stand when at attention, and had a feeling the lesson would need repeating at least twice before the recruits began to understand it.
With a sigh, Devlin turned his back on the little groups scattered around the parade square. He couldn’t hang about too long. There was far too much work to do. Much as he’d like to supervise Sweetman’s drill sessions, it was impossible. Especially when much of Devlin’s time was occupied with pointless fetching and carrying for Captain Coughlin. The adjutant didn’t seem to understand the concept of using the corporals for this sort of work. Devlin was too old for such nonsense.
Speak of the devil. Here came the captain now, his face set in something that was probably meant to be a scowl. On Coughlin, however, the effect was rather spoiled. He was incapable of holding any expression except cheer. When had even the officers become young and fresh-faced like Coughlin? He’d been a Marine longer than these schoolboys had been alive, for pity’s sake.
“Ah, Sergeant. The colonel desires to inspect the, er, recruits. See to it that they are paraded, could you?”
Devlin thought of the reports he was supposed to deliver to Captain Green. Clearly that was an errand which would have to be delayed. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, saluting. If Captain Coughlin was any use, he could attend the task himself. Then again, this was what happened when promotions were handed out as favours to men who were entirely unfit for them.
“Good fellow,” said Coughlin, his scowl vanishing in an instant. “Jump to it, then. He, er, expects to start it all in a half hour.”
Oh for God’s sake. Where was the warning about that, then? Devlin fumed to himself as the adjutant strode away, blissfully ignorant of his uselessness. Damn it. He turned sharply on his heel and headed back out into the sunlight. It wasn’t often he wished he was back at sea, but this was definitely one of those times.
“On the square!” He bellowed, glad at least he had not lost his capacity to make himself heard to half the country. “Parade for inspection!”
There wasn’t the barest hint of hesitation by any of the sergeants scattered around the parade square. They turned to their respective squads and began barking out the necessary instructions. None of them missed a beat. Not that they would. Of course, their competence was sharply at odds with the shuffling stupidity of their recruits. Devlin cringed inwardly as he watched the clumsy movements as the sergeants shouted and shoved their charges along.
It took far longer than Devlin liked to get the squads formed into something that passed for a parade. For an instant, he wished the inspection wasn’t limited to only the recruits, then he thought it was for the best. There was little sense in embarrassing the working lads. Well. That was it. He reckoned he had a little time to make a quick inspection of his own before the colonel came.
“Sergeants! Stand easy. Recruits. ’Shun!” If he was honest, he hardly cared if the recruits were uncomfortable. They were supposed to be. With his rattan cane gripped in both hands at the small of his back, Devlin strolled forward, effortlessly adopting the casually alert attitude that had served him so well since he’d come aboard here. It was important to make these raw lads understand that no man with shoulder knots and sashes could be seen as anything less than a taskmaster, no matter how he presented himself.
“Chin up,” he said abruptly, stopping to use the end of his cane to nudge one man’s chin to the proper position. “Stop lookin’ ’round, there’s nothin’ you need to be seein’. You.” Devlin resumed his slow walk, only to stop again only two men along. “Stand straight, boy. You shoulda left yer slouchin’ at home. An’ you. Keep yer hands down ’gainst yer trouser legs, yer prick ain’t gone nowhere, ’less you ain’t got one.”
These were Sweetman’s lads, he realised with an internal sigh. He might have guessed. Damnable idiot. Hadn’t he been teaching this lot how to stand properly? The lesson was clearly not yet learned, if these slackers were any sign. Of course, with Sweetman in charge of them, it would take twice as long as usual for them to learn anything.
Devlin stopped again, his gaze flicking over a stocky man with what looked like dampness seeping into the crotch of his trousers. Oh for Christ’s sake. “Name,” he snapped.
The round-faced idiot stared at him in undisguised terror and stammered, “L-L-Lightfoot. Sir.”
“I ain’t a flamin’ officer. Far’s you’re concerned, me name’s Sergeant, you empty-headed bucket of pig swill,” said Devlin. “You a wee bit ’feared, Lightfoot? I don’t ’member anyone sayin’ it was ’llowed fer any bugger in this parade to piss all over himself. So it’s gotta be that you’re ’feared of somethin’. Is you ’feared of somethin’, Lightfoot?”
“N-No, sir. Sergeant.”
Sweetman was going to have to do a bloody lot better than this, Devlin thought. “Must be you’re just spineless. No matter. We’ll grind that outta you. Stand up straight, at least, damn it.” He moved on, despite having plenty more he wanted to say to that particular fool. Honestly. A grown man being so frightened of a little shouting that he’d pissed himself. What a disgrace.
“You,” he said, coming to a stop in front of a boy after three paces away from Lightfoot. This poor sod stuck out like a sore thumb. Short, rail-thin, and wearing a shirt that was clearly too large for him. Another thing that should have been sorted out before now. “Name.”
This one was at least sharp enough to know the proper form of address. “Thompson, Sergeant.”
“You plannin’ to grow into yer kit, or did you nick some other lad’s things? Pull those sleeves up into yer jacket, for God’s sake. Nobody likes a lad what hides his hands.” He frowned. “ ’Less you’re a dipper.”
“I ain’t.” The boy sounded indignant. “Sergeant.”
“Of course you ain’t. Only honest sorts take the King’s shilling. Sort out yer shirt an’ everythin’ else. Bad ’nuff you’re a runt without yer kit bein’ bigger’n a tent on you.” Devlin resumed his walk, privately surprised that Sweetman should let anyone turn out for drill looking like that. Perhaps the younger sergeant hadn’t even seen the lad. Perhaps he was simply losing his edge. Or perhaps he was using it as a means to keep the lad looking sloppy. Well. If the latter was the case, Devlin’s noticing it would mean it couldn’t happen again.
The rest of his inspection was not yet finished when Sergeant Silver stamped his heels together and bawled, “ ’Shun!”
Oh lovely. The colonel was coming out now. Devlin faced about smoothly and marched to meet the approaching officers. It couldn’t have been a half hour since Captain Coughlin had warned him of the impending inspection. How could it have been? More to the point, why didn’t the adjutant have sense enough to be aware that it was courtesy to announce the colonel’s presence himself?
“Sir,” Devlin greeted, coming to a halt two paces away from the colonel and saluting. “Recruits paraded for inspection.”
“Thank you, Sergeant-Major. Well done. You may carry on with your duties.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Only too happy to get back to his interrupted messenger duty, Devlin saluted again and stepped off. Later, he’d have some words with the drilling sergeants, Sweetman in particular, about what should and shouldn’t be permitted to happen. It would be nice if he could have similar words with Captain Coughlin, too. With a sigh, he decided that a visit to the stores was in order too. He had little doubt that Sergeant Sweetman would do nothing to help that twig of a boy sort out his uniforms, or show anything except contempt for the spineless git Lightfoot.
It wasn’t in him to care much about Lightfoot - that one would break, he guessed - but he could see to it Thompson’s clothes were set to rights. The short-sighted twit in charge of Stores wouldn’t know anything was amiss until it was knocking him over the head anyway. To be sure, it was slightly out of line for him to take an interest, but it was just so pointless to give anyone clothes that were clearly a bad fit. That was something Sweetman ought to be attending to, Devlin thought grumpily, even as he detoured to the Stores. That was, of course, if Sweetman had any true worth as a sergeant.
Good Lord but there was never any end to chasing after these youngsters. The old Marine sighed again and remembered what he was supposed to be doing right then. Well. It couldn’t be helped. Captain Green would have to wait just a little longer for those reports, wouldn’t he?
no subject
Date: 2012-02-07 10:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-07 10:07 pm (UTC)Indeed, poor Thompson. I'm afraid he's been set up for some particular attention from his sergeant now, too...
no subject
Date: 2012-02-07 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-07 10:29 pm (UTC):P
no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 02:26 am (UTC)