A beer and a chat in the Crown

Thompson nursed the tankard of foaming beer and looked around the room. If this were a tavern back home, this would be the taproom, but it was the Crown, and he wasn't quite sure what to call the place.

He couldn't help glancing down again at the bright white stripes on the sleeve of his not-so-new jacket, thrilling a little again at seeing them there.

Having rescued his precious springy-glass bottle and what was left of its contents, McIntyre had taken his leave of the crowded parlour. There were quieter places to hole up in this place. There had to be. It wouldn't be much of an inn otherwise.

His wanderings shortly found him in a proper pub, or near enough to one. A pub was a place he was very much disposed to be comfortable in. Grinning at his luck, he bellied up to the bar at once, carefully setting his pale green bottle down on the bartop.

"Pint of your best," he told the barman, deftly hiding his private delight at ending up in such a respectable-looking place. It was clean and orderly, anyway. A far sight better than the sorts of places he usually visited!

When the cheerfully-foaming tankard was set before him, McIntyre grinned. This was more like it. He dipped his nose into the tankard without hesitation. Then, after savouring the drink for a long moment, he glanced at the other redcoat a couple chairs away. "Them are new, eh?"

Thompson was glad he'd put his tankard down on the table; it meant that he hadn't slopped any beer when he was unexpectedly addressed by another redcoat.

"Aye," he answered, leaning back in his seat and looking up at the newcomer, before gesturing to an empty chair across the table.

That was invitation enough for McIntyre. He collected his tankard and springy-glass bottle and shifted seats, only too willing to share company with another redcoat. Even if the other fellow turned out to be a soldier, judging by his facings.

"What d'they mean, anyway?" The Irishman asked, once he was settled.

The other man, who seemed to be about his age - maybe a bit older, on second thoughts - was wearing a decidedly old-fashioned uniform. Thompson recognised the white facings easily enough; he'd worn the self-same colour facings for the first five years of his service in the Corps.

He was wearing the old-fashioned shoulder-knot that Thompson remembered from those days, too.

"Means I'm a Corp'ral," he said, preparing to try to explain the Crown and its strange way of bringing together men from different times and places, and thus attempting to explain the dark blue facings of his own jacket. Surely the man couldn't fail to notice that their buttons both bore the fouled anchor symbol of the Marines, after all.

Ah. It was a damned odd way of showing that rank, wasn't it?

"Some sorta royal regiment then, eh?" McIntyre took a good swallow of beer and managed, just, to avoid smacking his lips in appreciation. This was prime stuff, sure.

Thompson took a decent pull at his own beer. That was good stuff, that was, not rat's piss poor... rather like the rest of this place.

"You could say that," he said, once he'd lowered his tankard. "This's goin' to sound strange, I know. I'm a Royal M'rine, see." He held out his free hand so the other man could see the fouled anchor buttons on the cuff.

Marine. McIntyre's ears clued in on that word, the most important perhaps of all words, and he nodded. Royal Marine, was it? Well. It was only about time. Hadn't the Corps proven its worth plenty enough over the years?

"What's strange?" He asked amiably. "You bein' a Marine's 'nuff for me."

Thompson shrugged. The other man - other Marine - seemed to have taken it well enough. There was no flat denial or... he wasn't quite sure what he'd expected, if anything.

"Bin Royal for... seven years now. Though it was the white facin's when I 'listed." He grinned. "Name's Thompson, by the way, George Thompson."

"Be nice to shift outta the white," McIntyre remarked. He was proud of his white facings, for they were unique to the Corps, but they weren't half a nightmare keeping clean. "Brendan," he added. "Or McIntyre."

He offered his hand.

Thompson shook the offered hand. "The white looks smart 'nough," he said. "Though it's a deal of bother keepin' 'em that way, ain't it?" Especially for inspections and the like - Thompson remembered that all too well.

"Somethin' like. Worse when traipsin' about ashore like we're the soddin' army." He shook his head. "I see they don't got open fronts on coats no more, least. Better for the shirts."

"I couldn't be doin' with all that there marchin' around with a soddin' great pack on," Thompson said, and chuckled. "They got us in jackets now, not them long-tailed coats, an' all - though the closed fronts come in when we got the blue facin's."

The last time McIntyre had been anywhere with a full pack, he'd been joining his last ship. Their officer preferred the ability to move quickly when ashore, which meant leaving the bulky packs aboard. It was something McIntyre agreed with.

"Long tails're good when it's cold," the Irishman allowed. "Open fronts're good when it's hot, too." He shrugged, had another swallow of beer, and asked, "New to the rank, I'd guess?"

"Aye - only had it a few days." The cleanness of the chevrons against the more faded red of his jacket sleeve was obvious enough, as was the fact that McIntyre's shoulder-knot looked as though he'd had it a while.

"Seems to be you'll be lookin' for a sash to go with that shoulder-knot o' yourn, one of these days, Corp'ral," he said lightly, indicating the other's own badge of rank.

He grinned. "It'll settle on you soon 'nuff," he remarked. "A sash, though. That'll not happen for a goodly while yet!"

Truth to tell, McIntyre was happy where he was at. It was just the right side of having authority. Getting another step would mean the rift between him and the lads was too wide to be managed.

" 'Sides. This here's the best spot to be at, for a lad."

"I ain't so sure," Thompson mused. "I'm usedta bein' one o' the lads and knowin' I ain't, that they'll take me words as an order - that I'll be the one to report 'em if anythin' goes wrong... It don't sit well, that."

"If you got a surly bunch, mebbe that's so," McIntyre replied. Or if you were soft-willed, like poor Jonesy. "Takes gettin' used to anyways, so it does. Some of the boys won't take kindly to it, but that'll happen anyways. Usually they're the ones cuttin' up anyway."

"They're good lads, all of 'em. Well, most of 'em. Don't reckon anyone'll have any luck managin' Shriver. He'm allus in a bad temper over summat, him." He shifted his tankard a little, wrapping his hand around it before taking another pull at the beer. "Most of 'em seemed pleased enough. Reckon I was prob'ly the most surprised of the lot when I had the stripes offered me."

"That's half your worry sorted, just there." If this fellow's detachment was well-populated with hard cases, his life as a corporal would be utter misery. "Trickiest thing's findin' that line 'tween bein' naturally friendly an' bein' soft."

McIntyre considered a moment, feeling almost compelled to mention Jonesy and his plight while reckoning it important to protect the poor fellow's dignity. In the end he settled for, "I know a lad what got his step about a year back. Decent, steady sort. Gettin' his knot was the worst thing done to him."

Thompson sighed. "I dunno how anyone does it, though, an' I dunno if I'm goin' to figure it out afore I screw things up somehow." He looked at the mug in his hand. "I jus' hope I don't go the same way, not now I've got the stripes."

"Think of it as bein' like a recruit," McIntyre suggested. "You don't know half of nothin' but gotta pick it all up as you go. 'Sides. If you does somethin' stupid, how d'you know the lads'll know? Unless it's that obvious."

He dipped his nose down into his now half-empty tankard again before adding, "This one poor sod did better bein' just one of the lads, so he did. Havin' his knot busted his spirit."

Thompson didn't much like the idea of being a recruit again, but considered the other Marine's words. He knew a lot about a Corporal's duties from the other side, of course, and he knew what sort of Corporal he had preferred to have when he was a Private. The trick would be to be that sort of Corporal himself. And of course, if he made a mistake, he could learn from it - and if it was a really major mistake... Better not to make a major mistake, if possible.

"Poor sod. How'd he get the rank, if he ended up thataway?" he asked. The officer couldn't have been much good for his men if he'd promoted someone unsuitable for the rank.

The Irishman shrugged. "Don't know. I came aboard after it'd happened. The officer who done it prob'ly thought it was a good idea. Mebbe it was at the time. Course, he left the ship 'fore the poor beggar cracked."

Which meant that it fell to McIntyre to carry his mate when discipline had to be maintained. He didn't mind it, most of the time, but there were occasions when he wished - perhaps uncharitably - that Jonesy would get busted down again.

"Anyway. Point is, whatever you was doin' to get that knot - or them stripes - was obviously workin'."

"Don't think I was doin' anythin' more'n the others was," Thompson said, thoughtfully. Though, he was neater than Vining and easier to get on with than Shriver - though neither of those achievements was exactly difficult. He hadn't been in trouble for anything, not seriously - though there had been that bar-fight that the Army provosts had tried to have some of them flogged for. So he had a clean record, or no worse than most others.

"How'd you find things, when you got the knot?" he asked, indicating the white loops of worsted hanging the other Marine's shoulder.