Ribbit, ribbit: June 25th

Thompson crossed over to Terelly and Grattan, who both turned and stiffened. Thompson hoped that it was more in reaction to the stripes on his sleeve than to him personally. It still didn't feel right to have his fellow Marines bracing up just because he had a couple of stripes on his sleeve.

"As you were," he said. "Ain't nothin' to worry about, Terelly," he added quietly, thinking that it was only a few weeks ago when he'd called the others in the detachment by their Christian names. "Follow the drill, you'll be fine."

Gunn glanced towards the corporal briefly. He was trying to make sense of his words or the reason behind them. His gaiters needed a slight adjustment, but in his hurry he noticed far too late that he had missed a button. He studied a particularly uninteresting rope ahead of him then his eyes skimmed over to the amount of the horizon that he could see.

He was not worried about overpowering any of the French if they happened to skip to the other ship or if those would dare skip onto his own side. The prize money however made him smile. There would be plenty of it!

Just like the others, Allen too had stiffened at Thompson's approach. He had not meant to, really. Just a knee-jerk reaction to the sight of the stripes, he supposed. It still was going to take some getting used to--Thompson being a corporal now. But at least Allen knew that he would be a fair corporal, and having a fair corporal in their midst was a good thought to have with a battle approaching. That and the thought of giving the Frogs a damn good thumping, of course.

They were good lads, in Thompson's opinion. He had reservations about Shriver, of course, but then, he already knew about Shriver from being in the same rank and file with him.

He wasn't really sure why he'd got the stripes. He thought that Allen could have done the job just as well - but then, so could half the others in Terpsy's Marine detachment.

Terelly seemed a little reassured and Thompson looked around at the others. "Everythin' all right there?" he asked.

Terelly nodded, still a bit nervous, but looking much better than before. Next to him, Jackson, older and unfazed by battle, replied easily.

"Right as rain, Corp. Just let them Frenchies come. We'll teach them to run from us!"

Another voice sounded up. This one was a young Scotsman, MacTavish - red-headed and eager for battle.

"How long, do you think, until we catch up with them?"

"We've got a good wind, an' the weather gauge... means we can choose what side of him we want to go. He might want to fight, he might prefer to turn an' run. If he wants to make a fight of it, we could be up to him in a bell or so. Else... depends on how fast he is." Thompson grinned. "Ain't a ship afloat that'll outrun Terpsy, though."

Some looked relieved that the fight wasn't immanent, but MacTavish looked disappointed.

"A bell? You mean we have to stand around, doing nothing, until that Frenchy makes up his mind?", he asked irritably.

His accent grew thicker with every word, and the string of mumbled curses that followed were barely understandable to anybody born south of the border - considering that they wished nearly all ailments known to mankind down on the French ship for their cowardly behaviour, it was perhaps better anyway.

Thompson couldn't make out half of the Scot's invective, which was probably just as well.

"You ain't goin' to stand around doin' nothin', either," he added, decisively, though he felt anything but. "You can start checking your flints, for one thing - make sure you've all got a fresh flint in your musket and that you've got a couple of spares to hand, too."

Terelly was the first to pull up his musket up to check his flint. His fingers were still slightly shaky, and when he took the small pouch he kept his spares, he nearly dropped it.

He couldn't even say really what he was afraid of; not knowing what to expect, he supposed, but then, would knowing how it hurt being wounded and watching people die be really better? He knew that MacTavish hadn't been in a battle either - they both had enlisted at the same time - but the redhead didn't seem to have any fears. Or perhaps he was simply better hiding them behind brash talk.

Tentatively, he asked Thompson:

"What will we do when they decide to fight? I mean once we are alongside?"

"The guns will be firing before then. She might strike then, she might not. If it comes to us usin' our muskets, the hammock nettings will give a fair amount of protection, so you needn't worry about that." He indicated the nettings along the rails, in which the Terpsy's crew had placed their tightly-rolled hammocks. "An' you just keep loadin' an' firin' as fast as you can, though not so fast you're goin' to mess it up."

The lad felt reassured by that. Loading and firing they had practiced. As much as he sometimes hated the drill, he knew that he was decently good at it, so if that was all that was required ... Perhaps he would survive the fight with skin and pride intact after all.

With more confidence than before, he checked his cartridges.

MacTavish, checking his own firearm, asked hopefully:

"But then the Captain will tell us to board her, for sure? That's not something only the seamen are doing, or is it?"

Thompson shook his head. "I ain't lettin' the sailors get all the glory. Reckon we'm as good as them any day." Though of course they had to get up with the French ship first, of course. "Don't let the seamen push in when it comes to boardin', of course, an' make sure you've fixed your bay'net afore you even think about headin' over to 'em - it'll be too late afterwards."

That caused a couple of men to grin, and one drew demonstratively his bayonet, checked the blade with his fingers as if it was a knife, then held it up until the tip caught the light.

"Will be the first time since when that I will enjoy cleaning this tonight!", he declared.

They probably weren't as bloodthirsty as they gave the impression of being... at least, Thompson had never thought of their being bloodthirsty before he'd been promoted, and there was no reason they would have changed overnight.

"Mebbe so, but it'll take a deal of work to get prop'ly clean again," he reminded the man.

He glanced towards the officer, wondering how he was getting on.

"Pssst.. Gunn. Your left gaiter.." The marine in question had checked his flint before and knew it to be sparking properly. He glanced down and muttered something about buttons and being the end of any army, navy or marines. He knelt down, undoing the gaiter from top to bottom and then restarting the buttoning on the said leg.

"..Corp'ral. What do we do with these French guys? Chug them over board?" A couple of them laughed. "Better not mistake our own seamen and theirs..." There was a pause. "Though a couple would've done well for a dip!"

"You know we don't go chuckin' anyone overboard," Thompson pointed out. Terpsy's men should be wearing a cloth around their arms, if they had any sense - he didn't know if the captain or anyone had ordered them to do that.

"Looks like they want to make a fight of it," he added, glancing towards the French ship.

Terry glanced up to where the bright coats of the Marines were visible through the grating overhead, and then looked across at de Guarde, hoping to get the other boy's attention.

"Here, mate. What'd he want wiv you?" he asked in a loud whisper, seeing Buckles looking in his direction. All right, the other lad probably wasn't looking at him, but Terry would take what he got.

The group of Marines now all peered at the French ship again. The one who had made such a show of bravado put his bayonet back again, unconsciously checking twice whether it sat easy in its scabbard. A quiet murmur sprang up and the features of the enemy ship slowly became clearer. Suddenly the immantent fight felt much more real.

The lieutenant came quietly up behind them again and stood, his arms crossed at his back, besides Thompson. He didn't say a word, and only a very slight swaying on the balls of his feet betrayed his own impatience.

MacTavish remarked a bit louder:

"Shame that we don't have more cannons up here. They'll have fun long before we can hope to hit!"

It was brash talk, and someof it was really a desire to jump into battle, but some was also the uneasy feeling that it might be pretty horrible to have to stand fast and wait while others already fought and the enemy's shots would possibly cause havock on deck and could kill and wound even those not yet able to do anything.

"Ah, talk bleedin' English, why don't you?" Springfield muttered as the lad spouted something else in his impenetrable dialect.

Nat looked up as Terry spoke and flashed him a nervous grin. The initial scrambling excitement upon sighting the enemy ship reminded him a bit of his whaling days, but they were hunting a far more dangerous quarry now. The thought made his stomach turn over; he rather hoped it didn't come to boarding her, though he'd never admit it. He was rubbish at fighting.

"Huh?" De Guarde looked around, and stopped to look at Button. "Oh...He..."He hesitated. "...well." He flashed him an uncertain smile. "Something that might not even happen. But he talked 'bout marines.. that I might get a good word put in for it." He shrugged faintly. " Ye needn't worry. It won't happen.. this fightin' though will." He glanced at Kelly.

"...Prize money.. eh. If we get her 'round. Lots of prizemoney to look forward to."

MacTavish briefly paused to check, then looked scandalized. He hadn't accidently spoken Gaelic, and he prided himself in his good English - compared with his brothers', his was indeed not so bad. So he felt righteously offended by this particular comment.

"Something you want to say to me, English?", he snarled, pronouncing the words as clearly as he could.

Thompson had turned to watch the French ship, but heard voices behind him that didn't sound as jovial as he might have expected. They sounded downright antagonistic, in fact.

"Break it up, the both of yous," he said, turning to see who was arguing with whom. "This ain't the time or place for that kind of talk."

Springfield smirked. "Shutting up, Corporal."

Thompson shook his head, sighing. He had known that the job wouldn't be easy, of course, but the Captain had pretty much said he trusted him to at least do his best. If only other folks didn't try to make it harder than it already was.

He turned back to watching the French ship.