We'll Drink Unto Thee
Dec. 25th, 2016 03:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: We'll Drink Unto Thee
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of Dan Littlefield, who is my own creation, all names given in the story belong to men who served aboard HMS Fisgard.
Summary: A ship's company celebrates Christmas. The West Indies, December 1805.
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of Dan Littlefield, who is my own creation, all names given in the story belong to men who served aboard HMS Fisgard.
Summary: A ship's company celebrates Christmas. The West Indies, December 1805.
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
"It's a fine mornin'," said Dan Littlefield with satisfaction, "to have a fella deliver neat brandy to yer."
There was a grunt from Joseph Dalton, who sat hunched over his sewing. "Oh aye, and where'd you get hold of that?"
"Mister Renner." Littlefield grinned.
"S'it for?"
The question brought an eye-roll from Littlefield. "Wassail. Dunner you knowst anything?"
It was not a serious question, since he knew perfectly well that Dalton was only asking to be a pest. The other Marine didn't bother to offer a reply to it either. Instead, he laid his half-finished shirt onto the mess table and glanced over his shoulder. "Better be good stock, at the least. The lads'll not want they share elsewise."
Littlefield's grin broadened. "I happen to knowst," he said, "that Mister Renner's brung a full crate of best French brew aboard. Be plenny to sait the boys. I han ever'thin' else. Donner you fret, kidda."
That Fisgard was stationed where she was certainly proved useful. Jamaica was the perfect place to acquire everything needed for a proper Christmas. Littlefield had persuaded one of the master's mates to do some shopping ashore and the result, which he had of course already inspected, was all he had asked for - and then some, in fact, but George Renner was a decent bloke. Even for a sailor.
Speaking of Mister Renner. There was the master's mate now. With.. "Bugger," muttered Littlefield, who only saw his carefully-laid plans evaporating with the approach of Lieutenant George. There could be no doubt that the officer knew about the whole thing, since Renner had the distinctly unhappy look of a man who'd just been caught.
"I am informed of a scheme to make punch available to the lower deck," Mister George said as he came to a halt at the mess table, his gaze resting on Littlefield. "Said punch being made using brandy sneaked aboard for that sole purpose."
It was as well Renner was gazing determinedly at his shoes, Littlefield thought sourly. He'd spoilt the whole plan. Hell, he'd probably the game up at the first question. It'd be typical! "Donner knowst aught of that, sir."
"Indeed? That is a shame. I had intended to see the serving of that punch carried out, but as you know nothing of the plan for its making, I can do no better than to retain the brandy for the use of the gunroom."
He what? Littlefield stared at his officer in slack-jawed shock. The attention of the whole messdeck was likewise fixed on the lieutenant. Had he really just said what he had? That brandy was for the messdeck, not the bloody gunroom. It wasn't fair!
"If that's all, carry on." The lieutenant was already turning away, not seeing the scathing looks being given to Littlefield as soon as his back was turned. It suddenly dawned on the former potter that he was in very dire straits, having hinted vaguely for days that the lads would have a treat for Christmas. Now all that talk was about to land him in trouble with the whole of the detachment.
Before he knew what he was doing, Littlefield was on his feet. "Wait, sir."
Mister George turned slowly back around. "What is it?"
"It was me had Mister Renner fetch the brandy aboard, sir. Meant it for the lads, along of it near bein' Christmas. We been in commission three year an' naught a spell of leave for any lad, an' now..." he shrugged, rather out of words. "A couple tots of wassail wuddna do harm."
The silence that followed was not helped by the ringing of the ship's bell, letting every man aboard know it was nearly time for breakfast to be piped. Littlefield felt a rivulet of sweat worm its way down between his shoulder blades and wished he did not feel as though he had just stuck his own head through the noose. Either way this turned out, he felt sure he would be a marked man. The officers would know he had a habit of smuggling contraband aboard and the lads would know his schemes never stayed secret.
"I will speak to the Premier but I doubt he will be generous," Mister George said eventually. Those proved his final words on the subject, for he made his way aft directly, leaving a shame-faced Renner fidgeting in his wake.
"You loose-tongued swine," Dalton declared once the lieutenant was out of earshot.
Renner thrust his hands into his pockets, trying and failing to master his expression. "Lyin' to officers gets a man no-place."
"Oh aye? He wuddna funt the plan out if you hadna gobbed off 'bout it," Littlefield retorted, with feeling. "Now we'll get naught, so thanks!"
The master's mate offered no reply to that but took himself off forrard, head bowed and shoulders hunched. It was no comfort that, having given the game up to Mister George, Renner had surrendered any hope of enjoying the brandy punch himself. Disgusted, Littlefield dropped back down onto the bench and tried not to swear. Any hope of a festive day was utterly dashed. He silently damned Renner's indiscretion. This was absolutely the last time he'd ever trust a sailor!
The watches changed a bell later, interrupting the halfhearted polish he was putting on his crossbelt plate. The forenoon watch going on deck meant breakfast but Littlefield felt he had no appetite. Sulking was not ordinarily his way but he could not help it today. Thus, when Dalton eventually returned with the mess kid, he hardly noticed. He'd given up trying to polish the plate and was occupied with fitting it back onto the crossbelts themselves when Dalton coughed and in a flat voice asked the messdeck at large, "Any lad know why the devil there's a whackin' great pot on the galley stove, then?"
"What're you on 'bout?" Littlefield asked, glancing up with a slight frown.
Dalton shrugged and set about portioning out burgoo onto the plate of each Marine in the mess. "Cook's got his biggest pot set up on the stove an' is layin' out raps with his ladle to any lads get too near it. Wondered if anybody might know what's what with it."
Of course Dalton would wonder. He had no imagination. "Prob'ly for the bloody officers. Of course. Anyway, it ain't for us to ponder over. We oughter worry more 'bout Mister George holdin' drill."
A slightly gravelly bellow cut in neatly then, saving Dalton or anyone else from having to comment on that less-than-heartening prediction. The bellow came from Ross Connor, one of the other master's mates. Connor was standing on the first step of the forrard ladder, hands cupped round his mouth to better project his already formidable voice. "All hands! All hands to the galley stove!"
There was a pause before the ship's company began to drift forrard, reluctantly abandoning their breakfasts to obey Connor's order. Littlefield was obliged to wait until the rest of his mess had stood up from the table before he too was able to rise. He fell in behind Dalton, who had kept hold of the serving spoon and was busily licking it spotlessly clean.
Connor had shifted so he now stood by the galley stove, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked over the mixed gathering with a blank expression, appeared to decide every man was present who could be, and nodded deliberately at the stove. True to Dalton's report, there was indeed a very large pot on the boiler. Littlefield eyed it in curious suspicion. He was more convinced than before that whatever was it belonged solely to the officers, because didn't it always go that way?
It was, therefore, a very great surprise when Connor cleared his throat to announce, "The contents of yon pot aren't to be touched, till Up Spirits. Then - still! - then, every man-jack of us will receive a double tot, alongside of an extra issue of beef, cheese, an' bread. Three cheers for Cap'n Bolton!"
The huzzahs were lusty, because who aboard could ever object to a double tot of anything? Littlefield watched Connor's face but the sailor's expression gave away nothing. There was nothing for it but to ask. "What's in the pot, then, kidda?"
"Wassail," came the reply. "Been mullin' since the coppers was lit. It's Christmas, ain't it, cully?"
Bewildered, Littlefield could only stare. Wassail meant the brandy Mister George claimed to be confiscating had not been taken after all. Around him, the Fisgards cheered again. A trick, he realised. It had all been a trick. Bloody hell. A grin came slowly to life on his round face. A damned clever trick it was, too. Leave it to an officer!
Connor was not yet done. "I been asked to convey that Royal Marines are 'scused drill this forenoon. All hands are to muster topside in one bell. Mister Midshipman Downes is leadin' Divine service. Dis-miss!"
With one final cheer, the gathering broke up, the men dispersing back to their respective messes. Their plates of burgoo had by now cooled but in the atmosphere of cheerful anticipation, hardly anyone minded. Dalton had beaten the others back to the mess table and even in that short interval, had nearly cleared his plate.
"Gonny, you'd eat a man off'n his horse, an' the saddle as well," Littlefield noted, taking care to shift his own plate out of Dalton's reach.
The other Marine swallowed down a mouthful of burgoo and smirked. "We've no drill this side of noon, so's I'm gonna stretch out for a kip. An' why not, it's Christmas!"
So it was. Littlefield's previous lowered spirits were now buoyed. He tucked into his breakfast with a renewed appetite and resolved to thank Mister George when next he saw his officer.
The mood of the ship only grew more lighthearted at Up Spirits, when the promised double tot was served out. By then, it was too warm to remain long belowdecks so the bulk of the crew stayed topside to enjoy their repast. Somewhere on the foc's'le, where the maintopmen had largely gathered, two men began singing, touching off a gradual wave of rising voicse that rolled aft. It did not wash over the quarterdeck but this was no surprise and anyway, none of the men noticed.
Dan Littlefield, perched atop the capstan alongside Joe Dalton and little George Lowrie, one of the ship's boys, cradled his horn mug and joined in the chorus to Tarry Trousers. It was a far cry from spending Christmas day comfortably surrounded by family but in company such as this, there was hardly a man-jack present who could complain. Littlefield lifted his mug into the air and into the silence after the last warbling note from Ross Connor had faded, sang out, "A wassail, aye, a wassail all over the sea, and a health we'll drink unto thee!"
There was a grunt from Joseph Dalton, who sat hunched over his sewing. "Oh aye, and where'd you get hold of that?"
"Mister Renner." Littlefield grinned.
"S'it for?"
The question brought an eye-roll from Littlefield. "Wassail. Dunner you knowst anything?"
It was not a serious question, since he knew perfectly well that Dalton was only asking to be a pest. The other Marine didn't bother to offer a reply to it either. Instead, he laid his half-finished shirt onto the mess table and glanced over his shoulder. "Better be good stock, at the least. The lads'll not want they share elsewise."
Littlefield's grin broadened. "I happen to knowst," he said, "that Mister Renner's brung a full crate of best French brew aboard. Be plenny to sait the boys. I han ever'thin' else. Donner you fret, kidda."
That Fisgard was stationed where she was certainly proved useful. Jamaica was the perfect place to acquire everything needed for a proper Christmas. Littlefield had persuaded one of the master's mates to do some shopping ashore and the result, which he had of course already inspected, was all he had asked for - and then some, in fact, but George Renner was a decent bloke. Even for a sailor.
Speaking of Mister Renner. There was the master's mate now. With.. "Bugger," muttered Littlefield, who only saw his carefully-laid plans evaporating with the approach of Lieutenant George. There could be no doubt that the officer knew about the whole thing, since Renner had the distinctly unhappy look of a man who'd just been caught.
"I am informed of a scheme to make punch available to the lower deck," Mister George said as he came to a halt at the mess table, his gaze resting on Littlefield. "Said punch being made using brandy sneaked aboard for that sole purpose."
It was as well Renner was gazing determinedly at his shoes, Littlefield thought sourly. He'd spoilt the whole plan. Hell, he'd probably the game up at the first question. It'd be typical! "Donner knowst aught of that, sir."
"Indeed? That is a shame. I had intended to see the serving of that punch carried out, but as you know nothing of the plan for its making, I can do no better than to retain the brandy for the use of the gunroom."
He what? Littlefield stared at his officer in slack-jawed shock. The attention of the whole messdeck was likewise fixed on the lieutenant. Had he really just said what he had? That brandy was for the messdeck, not the bloody gunroom. It wasn't fair!
"If that's all, carry on." The lieutenant was already turning away, not seeing the scathing looks being given to Littlefield as soon as his back was turned. It suddenly dawned on the former potter that he was in very dire straits, having hinted vaguely for days that the lads would have a treat for Christmas. Now all that talk was about to land him in trouble with the whole of the detachment.
Before he knew what he was doing, Littlefield was on his feet. "Wait, sir."
Mister George turned slowly back around. "What is it?"
"It was me had Mister Renner fetch the brandy aboard, sir. Meant it for the lads, along of it near bein' Christmas. We been in commission three year an' naught a spell of leave for any lad, an' now..." he shrugged, rather out of words. "A couple tots of wassail wuddna do harm."
The silence that followed was not helped by the ringing of the ship's bell, letting every man aboard know it was nearly time for breakfast to be piped. Littlefield felt a rivulet of sweat worm its way down between his shoulder blades and wished he did not feel as though he had just stuck his own head through the noose. Either way this turned out, he felt sure he would be a marked man. The officers would know he had a habit of smuggling contraband aboard and the lads would know his schemes never stayed secret.
"I will speak to the Premier but I doubt he will be generous," Mister George said eventually. Those proved his final words on the subject, for he made his way aft directly, leaving a shame-faced Renner fidgeting in his wake.
"You loose-tongued swine," Dalton declared once the lieutenant was out of earshot.
Renner thrust his hands into his pockets, trying and failing to master his expression. "Lyin' to officers gets a man no-place."
"Oh aye? He wuddna funt the plan out if you hadna gobbed off 'bout it," Littlefield retorted, with feeling. "Now we'll get naught, so thanks!"
The master's mate offered no reply to that but took himself off forrard, head bowed and shoulders hunched. It was no comfort that, having given the game up to Mister George, Renner had surrendered any hope of enjoying the brandy punch himself. Disgusted, Littlefield dropped back down onto the bench and tried not to swear. Any hope of a festive day was utterly dashed. He silently damned Renner's indiscretion. This was absolutely the last time he'd ever trust a sailor!
The watches changed a bell later, interrupting the halfhearted polish he was putting on his crossbelt plate. The forenoon watch going on deck meant breakfast but Littlefield felt he had no appetite. Sulking was not ordinarily his way but he could not help it today. Thus, when Dalton eventually returned with the mess kid, he hardly noticed. He'd given up trying to polish the plate and was occupied with fitting it back onto the crossbelts themselves when Dalton coughed and in a flat voice asked the messdeck at large, "Any lad know why the devil there's a whackin' great pot on the galley stove, then?"
"What're you on 'bout?" Littlefield asked, glancing up with a slight frown.
Dalton shrugged and set about portioning out burgoo onto the plate of each Marine in the mess. "Cook's got his biggest pot set up on the stove an' is layin' out raps with his ladle to any lads get too near it. Wondered if anybody might know what's what with it."
Of course Dalton would wonder. He had no imagination. "Prob'ly for the bloody officers. Of course. Anyway, it ain't for us to ponder over. We oughter worry more 'bout Mister George holdin' drill."
A slightly gravelly bellow cut in neatly then, saving Dalton or anyone else from having to comment on that less-than-heartening prediction. The bellow came from Ross Connor, one of the other master's mates. Connor was standing on the first step of the forrard ladder, hands cupped round his mouth to better project his already formidable voice. "All hands! All hands to the galley stove!"
There was a pause before the ship's company began to drift forrard, reluctantly abandoning their breakfasts to obey Connor's order. Littlefield was obliged to wait until the rest of his mess had stood up from the table before he too was able to rise. He fell in behind Dalton, who had kept hold of the serving spoon and was busily licking it spotlessly clean.
Connor had shifted so he now stood by the galley stove, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked over the mixed gathering with a blank expression, appeared to decide every man was present who could be, and nodded deliberately at the stove. True to Dalton's report, there was indeed a very large pot on the boiler. Littlefield eyed it in curious suspicion. He was more convinced than before that whatever was it belonged solely to the officers, because didn't it always go that way?
It was, therefore, a very great surprise when Connor cleared his throat to announce, "The contents of yon pot aren't to be touched, till Up Spirits. Then - still! - then, every man-jack of us will receive a double tot, alongside of an extra issue of beef, cheese, an' bread. Three cheers for Cap'n Bolton!"
The huzzahs were lusty, because who aboard could ever object to a double tot of anything? Littlefield watched Connor's face but the sailor's expression gave away nothing. There was nothing for it but to ask. "What's in the pot, then, kidda?"
"Wassail," came the reply. "Been mullin' since the coppers was lit. It's Christmas, ain't it, cully?"
Bewildered, Littlefield could only stare. Wassail meant the brandy Mister George claimed to be confiscating had not been taken after all. Around him, the Fisgards cheered again. A trick, he realised. It had all been a trick. Bloody hell. A grin came slowly to life on his round face. A damned clever trick it was, too. Leave it to an officer!
Connor was not yet done. "I been asked to convey that Royal Marines are 'scused drill this forenoon. All hands are to muster topside in one bell. Mister Midshipman Downes is leadin' Divine service. Dis-miss!"
With one final cheer, the gathering broke up, the men dispersing back to their respective messes. Their plates of burgoo had by now cooled but in the atmosphere of cheerful anticipation, hardly anyone minded. Dalton had beaten the others back to the mess table and even in that short interval, had nearly cleared his plate.
"Gonny, you'd eat a man off'n his horse, an' the saddle as well," Littlefield noted, taking care to shift his own plate out of Dalton's reach.
The other Marine swallowed down a mouthful of burgoo and smirked. "We've no drill this side of noon, so's I'm gonna stretch out for a kip. An' why not, it's Christmas!"
So it was. Littlefield's previous lowered spirits were now buoyed. He tucked into his breakfast with a renewed appetite and resolved to thank Mister George when next he saw his officer.
The mood of the ship only grew more lighthearted at Up Spirits, when the promised double tot was served out. By then, it was too warm to remain long belowdecks so the bulk of the crew stayed topside to enjoy their repast. Somewhere on the foc's'le, where the maintopmen had largely gathered, two men began singing, touching off a gradual wave of rising voicse that rolled aft. It did not wash over the quarterdeck but this was no surprise and anyway, none of the men noticed.
Dan Littlefield, perched atop the capstan alongside Joe Dalton and little George Lowrie, one of the ship's boys, cradled his horn mug and joined in the chorus to Tarry Trousers. It was a far cry from spending Christmas day comfortably surrounded by family but in company such as this, there was hardly a man-jack present who could complain. Littlefield lifted his mug into the air and into the silence after the last warbling note from Ross Connor had faded, sang out, "A wassail, aye, a wassail all over the sea, and a health we'll drink unto thee!"