The purpose of drill, 1 July

Shepherd had by now gotten complete control of his expression. "Don't recall. Corporal."

Did Thompson honestly expect he'd peach on his brother? He had to, or he wouldn't have asked. The nerve!

He hadn't really expected the lad to split on his brother, of course. The rest of his uniform seemed to be in order, at least, so Thompson moved to inspect the second rank.

Here we go, Springfield thought, straightening fractionally as the corporal approached. What would it be this time?

"Did you black your shoes afore comin' on p'rade?" Thompson asked Springfield, who was at the end of the second rank. One of his shoes looked as though the blacking had scuffed a bit... almost as though the shoe had been stood on. Or knocked into something. If it had been done in coming on deck, it wouldn't be scuffed quite there, either.

The new corporal, the new ship, the new marines and probably also new ways of cutting corners that were yet undiscovered. It wasn't what was on his mind now though. There was sniggering earlier, and he was curious to see if this was a common occurance. Perhaps one could get away with more? Why was the standing like this quite so boring and slow passing? There was a particularly interesting smudge on the back of the coat of the man in front. If only he could not prop his musket against that smudge and rest his arms, flex his fingers, scratch an itch somewhere, adjust his crossbelts, rub another itch of his forehead.

Hopefully they would get over with it soon and then they could preferably let the new marines have some lovely rest because the captivity in the cages of the French must truly have been so horrendous as to deserve it! And while they were at it, they could also be given some good, hot food, a nice mug of grog and a few coins for the efforts. He could bet nobody would complain about that reward...well maybe the old hands would, but who cared about that?

Oh. Something of a smirk lingered on Springfield's face, though without ever touching his mouth. 'Afore' was an awful relative term. "Sure I did, corporal."

"An' I don't mean last week, neither," Thompson said, slightly irritated by the expression in the other Marine's eyes - he would almost swear that the man was smirking at him. "I mean, either yesterday or this mornin'," he added, feeling he shouldn't need to clarify... though of course everyone was going to try to give him the run-round until they all got used to his rank.

It didn't comfort him in the least to know that he would be doing exactly the same if someone else in the detachment had been given the stripes instead.

The corporal was distracted. This had to be a good thing. Biting his lip, Ware slipped his left hand around to the front of his trousers and dug his fingers into the fabric. Sweet Jesus, why did he itch so badly?

It was all he could do to keep from grinning outright now. "Oh, this mornin'? No."

"Have you black-balled 'em in the last week, even?" Thompson wanted to know.

This was worse than pulling teeth. Not that he'd ever done that, but he'd seen it done - had one of his own out, in fact.

How NCOs didn't blow up at their men more often, Thompson didn't know.

He managed to catch himself just shy of shrugging. "Might have done. Don't recall.

Drawing teeth? Drawing hens' teeth would be closer to the mark.

"Well, that'd explain the state they'm in, then," he said, trying not to sigh. He was rather tempted to clout the man over the head with the butt of his musket, but he could just imagine the response that would fetch him. "I s'pose you don't 'member the last time you brushed your coat, neither?"

No matter how hard he pressed his fingers in, it didn't feel like there was any relief. Ware very nearly whined in helpless frustration. He couldn't scratch properly either. Not if he wanted to avoid drawing Corporal Thompson's notice.

This was a Shepherd's doing. It had to be. Those little terrors!

"My coat?" Springfield considered this for about as long as he thought he could get away with before offering a flat, "No."

"Well, that'd explain why you look like you've bin dragged through a hedge back'ards, then," Thompson said. "You can spend the next watch gettin' your kit up to scratch, an' then report to Sergeant Quinn to show it, four bells of the first dog. An' if it ain't up to his standards by then, you can work on it some more an' report to the duty NCO every watch till it is, same as Vinin'. Got it?"

Gunn quietly groaned. Half the marines will be scrubbing at their bits of kit if corporal Thompson would be so particular about it. He gave a quick glance at his coat. He muttered something in gaelic about standards and pickyness and scoffed. Why had he not taken his attention to solely the new marines. Find fault in them! Pshht.

His gaze was fixed straight forward, his posture rigid and unmoving. Enough had already gone awry in this inspection without him adding to the indiscipline. Springfield's usual state of disarray was no surprise, though. The older Marine would never change.

Maybe, if the corporal would stop his dallying, they could get on with their drill. If nothing else, McIntyre was keen to find out how sharp - or dull - this lot were.

"Got it, corporal," Springfield replied blandly.

Only time would tell, of course. Somehow, Thompson didn't think that the other man would 'got it' for more than a day or so. A week, at the outside - same as Vining.

He moved across - this was one of the new Marines, one they'd rescued from the French ship. "Whyte, ain't?" he said, and looked at the lad's turn-out.

"Yes's..corp'ral. Whyte" The youth answered, corrected the way it was said and then gazed curiously at Thompson and then quickly sombering his expression to make it appear quite like his interpretation of a marine. He held the musket loosely, so as felt most comfortable and at ease for him.

He could have said no, of course. He could have given him a cheeky, or not so cheeky: "No, corp'..jus' Black." But he had refrained from it. Smart that.

The new marine in front of him was young, about Oxley's age, and his uniform looked fairly new, which was possibly a good thing. He couldn't see that there was anything to fault, but maybe that was simply because he didn't know the lad's qualities, character and faults yet. Hmm. He would have to keep an eye on him to find out what he was like, and try to train him into good habits.

"How long've you bin in the Corps?" he asked, curious.

"A whiles in t' corps." The youth answered as if that could be a good answer. "Not been A corp'ral ev'r." He added though it was quite obvious by his age. He gazed boldly enough at the corporal sizing him up. Good, bad, friendly, mean, what was this man like. He was certainly looking for dirty smudges on people, so perhaps he wanted to have them cleaner than clean? He had gotten the stripes, but the rumour had it, it had not been so long ago. Could he believe that or was somebody pulling their leg , because they were new?

This really was getting silly now. Thompson fought back the urge to sigh. 'A while' meant nothing at all. "When did you 'list, then? Last year? The year afore? The year of Trafalgar?"

"Not t' year o' Trafalgar, don't think. Corp'ral." The youth answered with confidence. "Mebbe a year,.. two.. I dun' count." He had thought the first voyage on a ship took centuries, for how sick he had felt and how long that had lasted! Surely it must have atleast taken a year or was it merely his perception that was corrupted by his ill state.

"Mebbe less, but I'um certain it ain't since Trafalgar, corp'ral."

That was better. A couple of years, then. which made him still fairly new to it all. He sounded confident, as well, which could be a good thing... or not. He'd definitely keep an eye on the lad and hopefully he'd be able to stop him going wrong, if he showed signs of it.

He nodded and moved on. "Everett."