A beer and a chat in the Crown

"Bit confusin', at first," he admitted. "Didn't know my arse from my feet for a while. It was like somebody'd turned the world flat onto its ear. Then things just sorta sorted themselves out."

"Be nice if things was as 'bligin' as that for me," Thompson said ruefully. He could understand the confusion about things - he wasn't sure himself whether he was on his head or his feet. "I'll do me duty right 'nough, though it ain't goin' to be any too nice when I have to 'port someone - an' even in a good detachment, there'll be a time when someone needs 'portin' for summat." He shrugged, and drained the rest of his beer.

That was true enough. Still. There was duty and there was duty. "It ain't like peachin'," McIntyre said. "You gots your job to do and if the lads are any sort of sharp they'll know it. Mosta the time they knows when they've fouled up anyway, so gettin' pulled up for it ain't a surprise."

Thompson nodded thoughtfully. "You'm sayin' that if its summat I'd've bin pulled up over as a Private, I oughta do summat about it?" That kind of made sense, though he wasn't sure he could manage the quiet unofficial word about things before they got so bad he'd have to notice it properly... Corporal Johnson hadn't been the sort to do that.

Though, really, he'd tried to stop things himself already before they got so bad Corporal Johnson would have had a fit over them. So, maybe, he didn't really need to do anything more than he'd been doing?

He hadn't thought of that.

He noticed that the other man had nearly finished his beer. "Here, c'n I get you another one?" he asked, indicating the tankard in the other Corporal's hand.

"Aye, something like," McIntyre agreed. "But be even-handed with it or the lads'll get sour."

He thought of his first corporal, who was notorious for keeping grudges - and using his bit of authority to make those against whom he was begrudged miserable. Much of McIntyre's own style of command had come from watching Corporal Marshley and learning what not to do.

"I'd not say no to another one," he added, surrendering his empty tankard with a grateful nod. Next round would, naturally, be on him. It was only fair.

Thompson went to the bar to get their tankards refilled. That was something he still found odd about this place: there weren't any barmaids moving around that he could see.

He put a foaming tankard on the table in front of McIntyre and sat down again. "Even-handed is easy enough to say," he said thoughtfully. "Prob'ly easy enough t'do with those folks you get on with. But what 'bout them as you don't like, who don't like you?" He couldn't help thinking of the hulking, bad-tempered bully Shriver.

He swiped some of the foam off the top and licked it off his finger, giving himself a moment to consider the question. There were a couple sort of bad apples in his own detachment, but beyond them there was nobody overtly troublesome. Maliciously troublesome, he amended.

"There's the rub. Them what knows how to try a fellow's nerves." McIntyre shrugged. "They bear a bit more watchin', maybe, but it's best to treat them the same's everybody else, or they'll wail like banshees 'bout bein' hard done by."

That sounded just like the sort of thing Shriver would do, of course. Though, if he kicked off... No, Thompson wasn't the sort who could misuse and abuse his rank. He'd been on the receiving end of that for long enough as a recruit, after all. But if Shriver kicked off, Thompson wouldn't let him get away with it. Nobody would expect him to let anyone get away with it, after all. That was part of 'being fair', wasn't it?

"It don't sound to be easy," he admitted. "Though, if it was, prob'ly the stripes wouldn't be worth havin', would they?"

He took a good pull at his beer. "Is there anythin' else I oughta know?" he asked, lowering the tankard, and wiping the foam from around his mouth with the back of his hand.

If it was easy, every lad would want to do it. Shrugging, McIntyre swallowed down some beer. "Officers," he said once his mouth was clear. "The lads ain't the only ones needin' lookin' after. Even officers need keepin' straight, after a fashion."

He thought of his own captain and grinned. Sometimes the officers needed more looking after. Collins was a good one, sure enough, but there were times when he needed a quiet word of warning or advice. Tactfully put, of course.

Well, that made sense. And some officers were likely easier to advise than others. And with a bad officer, the NCOs would be caught between the devil and the deep blue sea...

"Can't expect a gentleman to know everythin' about how things work, can we?" he offered with a grin. "Else they wouldn't be needin' the likes of you an' me."

"No." McIntyre smiled into his beer. Even those with their heads screwed on straight could be thick as a mainmast. They needed their sergeants and corporals to help keep them in line. Or alive, as the case could be.

"Way I see it," he went on, "is the balancin' point in any detachment is lads like ourselves. Not officers or even sergeants. You're still one of the lads even though you got this bit of white on your shoulder. Or sleeve. So the lads trust you like you're still all one of them, but so then the officers trust you 'cause of the knot. It's a tidy enough piece of power, really."

"Ah," Thompson said, nodding. "I can live with that. I think." He knew what he wanted from a Corporal, but it was strange to think that now he'd be the one who would have to give that.

"I bin in twelve years an' never thought to have stripes on me arm," he said. "It's goin' to take some gettin' used to - I feel like I'm dreamin', or pretendin' to be summat I ain't."

The Irishman snorted a laugh. "You're fair senior to me, then. Only got nine years meself. Barely nine anyway. Aye, it feels right strange for a while, so it does. Least you had a goodly bit of time learnin' things 'fore you got your own step."

"Mebbe senior in how long I've bin in, but you've had that knot longer'n I've had these stripes, so you'm definitely senior to me there," Thompson replied with a grin. "It's long enough to know how I wanted things to be afore I got 'em anyway. Trick is to make things work that way now I'm the one doin' it. Got a good set o' lads - though I don't know yet who's goin' to be in my section." And even the idea of that sounded strange; he'd never thought to have a group of men that he was directly responsible for.

Apples to lemons, McIntyre thought and savoured another mouthful of beer for a moment or two before swallowing it down. "Keepin' it sensible's the way to go," he advised. "If you wouldn't do it your own self, don't be askin' your lads to do it."

He thought of his own section, with its varied and distinct personalities, and grinned. "Half the fun's gettin' to know whichever lads you're lumped with."

"I allus preferred to have Corp'rals and Sergeants what led from the front." He grinned. "One o' our officers led a bunch of ours up a privy, near 'nough, when we were takin' a fort off the Frogs." He chuckled. "You should've seen him after. Covered in stuff it ain't fit to name in p'lite company - I think his steward burned that coat."

That sounded like quite an undertaking, even for an officer. McIntyre shook his head. The closest thing he could compare to that was seeing his captain after their first foray to that damned little island outside of Charleston. Mud, powder, and blood had vied for dominance in staining the poor fellow's uniform.

"Sure your officer's right in his head?" He asked.

Thompson grinned. "Don't think 'e can be - he's the one that gave me the stripes." He remembered meeting up with the men who'd gone up the tunnel. Of all of them, Cartwright was perhaps the filthiest. Thompson had nearly run him though before recognising his own officer under all the filth and kitchen slops that he was covered in.

Ah. Maybe not completely daft, then. Only mostly.

"S'pose even the utterly mad have redeemin' values," McIntyre remarked cheerfully. "Your officer seems a fellow worth knowin' anyway."

"I never known anythin' like it. He blew up half the Frog guns on his own, too - none of us knew where he'd got to till guns was gettin' blown up all over the wall-top."

He was going to take some looking after, that was for sure.

McIntyre whistled. "That beats all, don't it?" He'd never heard of an officer being that manner of bold. That fellow was truly a rare one!

"Best keep that 'un safe, I think. He's a treasure!"

"We'll do our best. Officer like him don't grow on trees." He grinned. "He's a good sort. Could even be the best officer I've had, but it's early to say that, yet." He glanced down at his sleeve. "Or, mebbe it isn't." Certainly Mister Cartwright was the first one to offer him promotion.

No, they sure didn't. Thompson's officer might be that sort of precious, but McIntyre reckoned his own took the cake overall. He certainly didn't know many others who'd ever troubled themselves so far as to get thrown off a ship sticking up for his lads.

"Sure seems he's on his way to bein' a gem." He licked a stray droplet of beer off his lip. "I dunno 'bout me own cap'n sometimes, though. He knows his bus'ness but he don't quite know how to keep himself outta trouble."

Wasn't that always the way, Thompson mused. "Seems that's what happens to the best ones. They get theirselves in trouble we can't get 'em out of. I just hope Mister Cartwright don't go that same way -he's a good'n." He wrapped his hands around his tankard. "Seems they don't quite know how to keep their heads down when they need to."

"The good ones don't," McIntyre observed. "The bad ones... well. Good luck gettin' them anywhere near a scrap."

Shrugging, he downed some more beer. He wasn't going to waste too much time thinking about that.