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barefoot_bard) wrote2015-03-23 07:50 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2015-03-23 07:50 pm
Entry tags:
Solutions
Title: Solutions
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: The character John Sweetman belongs tosharpiefan.
Story summary: Show the Colours/Dogwatches AU; An old hand deals with a problem. Chatham, April 1798.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
There were many things in life that depended on luck. Luck, good timing, and plenty of watchfulness. But mostly luck. Frederick Devlin didn't consider himself lucky on the whole. In his view, 'luck' took second to old-fashioned instinct, but in cases like this, 'luck' definitely figured itself in. Which, he mused as he watched the scene unfolding before him, meant that he finally could do something about a problem he'd been trying to resolve since he'd been appointed sergeant-major five years ago.
By rights, he should turn a blind eye. He should keep moving past the half-open barrack room door. To do that, however, was to undermine the authority of his rank and position. Devlin was much too old a Marine to put his office at risk like that. Anyway, this was a chance to take care of that nasty piece of business known as Sergeant John Sweetman. He'd be a fool, and unworthy of his station, if he didn't take advantage of it. Devlin drew in a breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door with a none-too-gently applied foot.
"Room! 'Shun!" He hardly waited for Sweetman to leap jerkily to attention. The white-faced recruits standing by their beds were already standing as rigidly motionless as they could. Devlin let his gaze rest deliberately on the only man the room who had not moved. The poor sod could be forgiven for that, on account of being bent nearly double. His trousers being down around his ankles and though Devlin could not completely see the backs of the man's thighs, he had witnessed enough of what was going on to know there were fresh wounds there. Wounds from Sweetman's rattan cane.
Sweetman himself had turned as he straightened up, so he was facing Devlin. The look on the younger sergeant's face might have curdled milk. If Devlin was the sort to be cowed, the chance existed for him to have second-guessed the wisdom of his intervention. Fortunately, he had long ago become immune to such passive tactics and regarded Sweetman with an expression of distinct loathing. He had at last caught the bastard and was determined to have Sweetman broken for his behaviour.
"All of you recruits, disappear! Take that man to the Infirmary!"
The moment that poor lad was seen by the surgeon, it'd be patently clear what had been going on. A report would be made to Lieutenant Jacobfield, who would in turn report to Captain Coughlin. The adjutant would then present the matter to Colonel Innes. Once it was in Innes' hands, this affair would be speedily dealt with. Thus confident in his chain of command, Devlin stepped to the side so the recruits could flee. Two of them helped their wounded mate, lifting him bodily and carrying him out to expedite their departure. Inside two minutes, the barrack room was empty except for Sweetman and Devlin. There was a little bit of time before any officers became involved with this.
"You're a disgrace," Devlin snapped, breaking the heavy silence without a second thought. "A right poxy disgrace. Take off yer jacket."
Sweetman did not so much as twitch in response. Instead, he levelled a dark scowl at the grey-haired Irishman and sneered, "You interrupted my inspection."
"That was no bloody inspection. Take. Off. Yer jacket." In the circumstances, it was strangely easy to overlook Sweetman's lack of deference. He'd do as Devlin ordered or he'd find out why the old Marine's temper was feared and respected throughout the Corps.
"You don't have any bloody right to - "
Devlin closed the distance between them in only two strides and an instant later, Sweetman was doubled over, nearly on his knees on the spotless wooden floor. The hard end of a rattan cane, when forcefully applied to an unsuspecting man's stomach, produced wonderfully prompt results. A second blow, this time with the full length of the cane, landed fully across Sweetman's back and the retching sergeant hit the floor.
"You'll mind yer language when you talks to a superior." Having brought Sweetman down to the level at which he belonged, Devlin felt marginally more content. He stepped casually past the other Marine, kicking the cane Sweetman had dropped out of easy reach. "I've known you was a bad'n, Sweetman. Known it for a right long time. But you've always been fly, you have. Well. Till today. S'pose gettin' away with abusin' recruits so long made you careless. Thank God fer that, I'll say. Now I'll not tell you again. Take. Off. Yer fuckin' jacket."
This time, Sweetman did as bidden, his movements slow and obviously resentful. As he jerked at the jacket buttons, he got shakily back to his feet. If looks had the power to kill, it was a sure bet Devlin would be dead and buried. He waited, unbothered by the obvious malevolence, and held out a hand for the jacket once Sweetman had finally stripped the garment off.
"Sash too," Devlin added, almost as an afterthought.
"You got no idea what you're gettin' yourself in for," Sweetman told him in a surly voice as he worked, blindly, at the knot in his sash.
"All I knows is you're a bully an' I ain't ever been fond of bullies. 'Specially not in my Corps. Give that over. Sure you don't deserve anythin' that looks like rank!" Once the sash was offered up, Devlin took it and then tossed both jacket and sash onto the nearest bed. Turning his back on Sweetman might not be the wisest idea but he was confident in his own instincts to do so, crossing to the barrack room door. It had been left wide open when the recruits had left, allowed Devlin to project his parade-ground volume deafeningly throughout the building when he called for the sergeant of the guard.
Devlin listened to the scrape of running feet in the corridor for only a second before firmly shutting the barrack room door. On turning back toward Sweetman, he allowed a grim smile to flicker across his age-lined face. There was roughly three minutes until Sergeant Adams arrived. Plenty of time. It was a good thing luck was in his favour today, because resolving the problem of John Sweetman was going to feel pretty damn good.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: The character John Sweetman belongs to
sharpiefan.Story summary: Show the Colours/Dogwatches AU; An old hand deals with a problem. Chatham, April 1798.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
There were many things in life that depended on luck. Luck, good timing, and plenty of watchfulness. But mostly luck. Frederick Devlin didn't consider himself lucky on the whole. In his view, 'luck' took second to old-fashioned instinct, but in cases like this, 'luck' definitely figured itself in. Which, he mused as he watched the scene unfolding before him, meant that he finally could do something about a problem he'd been trying to resolve since he'd been appointed sergeant-major five years ago.
By rights, he should turn a blind eye. He should keep moving past the half-open barrack room door. To do that, however, was to undermine the authority of his rank and position. Devlin was much too old a Marine to put his office at risk like that. Anyway, this was a chance to take care of that nasty piece of business known as Sergeant John Sweetman. He'd be a fool, and unworthy of his station, if he didn't take advantage of it. Devlin drew in a breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door with a none-too-gently applied foot.
"Room! 'Shun!" He hardly waited for Sweetman to leap jerkily to attention. The white-faced recruits standing by their beds were already standing as rigidly motionless as they could. Devlin let his gaze rest deliberately on the only man the room who had not moved. The poor sod could be forgiven for that, on account of being bent nearly double. His trousers being down around his ankles and though Devlin could not completely see the backs of the man's thighs, he had witnessed enough of what was going on to know there were fresh wounds there. Wounds from Sweetman's rattan cane.
Sweetman himself had turned as he straightened up, so he was facing Devlin. The look on the younger sergeant's face might have curdled milk. If Devlin was the sort to be cowed, the chance existed for him to have second-guessed the wisdom of his intervention. Fortunately, he had long ago become immune to such passive tactics and regarded Sweetman with an expression of distinct loathing. He had at last caught the bastard and was determined to have Sweetman broken for his behaviour.
"All of you recruits, disappear! Take that man to the Infirmary!"
The moment that poor lad was seen by the surgeon, it'd be patently clear what had been going on. A report would be made to Lieutenant Jacobfield, who would in turn report to Captain Coughlin. The adjutant would then present the matter to Colonel Innes. Once it was in Innes' hands, this affair would be speedily dealt with. Thus confident in his chain of command, Devlin stepped to the side so the recruits could flee. Two of them helped their wounded mate, lifting him bodily and carrying him out to expedite their departure. Inside two minutes, the barrack room was empty except for Sweetman and Devlin. There was a little bit of time before any officers became involved with this.
"You're a disgrace," Devlin snapped, breaking the heavy silence without a second thought. "A right poxy disgrace. Take off yer jacket."
Sweetman did not so much as twitch in response. Instead, he levelled a dark scowl at the grey-haired Irishman and sneered, "You interrupted my inspection."
"That was no bloody inspection. Take. Off. Yer jacket." In the circumstances, it was strangely easy to overlook Sweetman's lack of deference. He'd do as Devlin ordered or he'd find out why the old Marine's temper was feared and respected throughout the Corps.
"You don't have any bloody right to - "
Devlin closed the distance between them in only two strides and an instant later, Sweetman was doubled over, nearly on his knees on the spotless wooden floor. The hard end of a rattan cane, when forcefully applied to an unsuspecting man's stomach, produced wonderfully prompt results. A second blow, this time with the full length of the cane, landed fully across Sweetman's back and the retching sergeant hit the floor.
"You'll mind yer language when you talks to a superior." Having brought Sweetman down to the level at which he belonged, Devlin felt marginally more content. He stepped casually past the other Marine, kicking the cane Sweetman had dropped out of easy reach. "I've known you was a bad'n, Sweetman. Known it for a right long time. But you've always been fly, you have. Well. Till today. S'pose gettin' away with abusin' recruits so long made you careless. Thank God fer that, I'll say. Now I'll not tell you again. Take. Off. Yer fuckin' jacket."
This time, Sweetman did as bidden, his movements slow and obviously resentful. As he jerked at the jacket buttons, he got shakily back to his feet. If looks had the power to kill, it was a sure bet Devlin would be dead and buried. He waited, unbothered by the obvious malevolence, and held out a hand for the jacket once Sweetman had finally stripped the garment off.
"Sash too," Devlin added, almost as an afterthought.
"You got no idea what you're gettin' yourself in for," Sweetman told him in a surly voice as he worked, blindly, at the knot in his sash.
"All I knows is you're a bully an' I ain't ever been fond of bullies. 'Specially not in my Corps. Give that over. Sure you don't deserve anythin' that looks like rank!" Once the sash was offered up, Devlin took it and then tossed both jacket and sash onto the nearest bed. Turning his back on Sweetman might not be the wisest idea but he was confident in his own instincts to do so, crossing to the barrack room door. It had been left wide open when the recruits had left, allowed Devlin to project his parade-ground volume deafeningly throughout the building when he called for the sergeant of the guard.
Devlin listened to the scrape of running feet in the corridor for only a second before firmly shutting the barrack room door. On turning back toward Sweetman, he allowed a grim smile to flicker across his age-lined face. There was roughly three minutes until Sergeant Adams arrived. Plenty of time. It was a good thing luck was in his favour today, because resolving the problem of John Sweetman was going to feel pretty damn good.
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(I knew there was a reason I'd kept this icon, even after Thompson got his promotion.)
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(Heee!)