2nd July; Serving a Sentry

OOC - 'Serve' is a cant word meaning 'rob'.



Staying awake while on sentry at night was never an easy thing. Especially when one was at a below-decks post. Maintaining wakefulness was less of a challenge when topside, owing to the high visibility of such posts, but in the dark, it was difficult to keep one's eyes open. The regular creak of timbers as the ship rose and fell gently in a long rolling swell, the occasional rustle of canvas overhead as the steady nor'easterly breeze fell off the barest bit... these quiet comforting noises were like a lullaby to a tired mind.

Kit McIntyre felt his eyelids droop again and willed them open. Again. He was new to this ship and determined to give a good impression of himself, and falling asleep on watch was a sure way to accomplish the opposite. It was the last thing he wanted. So he shifted very slightly, blinked several times, and sternly told himself to keep a sharp lookout. In his last ship, the corporals had a habit of making their rounds at irregular intervals in order to catch men out. McIntyre himself had been caught dozing only once and the hard cuff round the ears he'd gotten for it had been worse than any flogging. His head had rung for nearly a day afterward. This frigate's corporals might not be so devious, but he dared not risk it.

The dark outline of a person came scurrying toward him and he straightened his back. It was a midshipman, owing to the small size of the shadow. The youngster had come to turn the half-hour glass. McIntyre waited till the timekeeper had been turned before reaching for the bellrope. It was all he could do to suppress a twitch of surprise when his hand encountered empty air instead of the thick weave of hemp. What in the devil...? He turned his hand and grasped the bell's clapper, tapping it against the inside of the bell with perhaps a little too much force. It was three bells in the first watch and he realised he'd have to repeat this five more times before the watch was over. Hell.

Fortunately, the midshipman did not appear to notice anything amiss as he scurried away again, but this did nothing to ease McIntrye's sudden worry. Had somebody come up while he'd been unaware and made off the bellrope? He had not actually been asleep at any point. He knew it. Yet there was no explaining why the bellrope was gone, when he was sure it had been present when he'd been assigned this post at the start of the watch - the last time he'd rung the bell, it had been there, even. There would be trouble for this, without a doubt, and he'd be for it good and proper.

Thompson had never much liked being on duty at night, especially in the first watch. He counted himself lucky to be in the Corps, which meant that he got all-night-ins regularly, rather than following the same watch-on, watch-off pattern as the sailors. At least they were in the Atlantic, and not on blockade with the Channel Fleet. He had spent two and a bit years with the Channel Fleet, aboard Temeraire, and did not miss the constant standing off and on in all weathers. Old Jarvie had been a taut admiral too - thankfully he'd not raised his flag in Temeraire, though.

There was nothing of note with the sentries below, and Thompson headed up to the berthdeck, pausing for a moment. He tightened his grasp on the lanthorn he was carrying, and shook himself a little, trying to shake off the drowsiness that was a familiar part of being on duty at this time.

Aft, the sentry on the Great Cabin straightened to attention as Thompson approached. Nothing amiss there, either. He headed up to the gundeck and then the weatherdeck, where the wind was fresh, a steady topsail breeze.

The bell sounded three strikes from for'rard. There was nothing amiss with the sentry by the wheel, and Thompson saluted the officer of the watch before turning to head for'rard, trying to remember who was by the bell. One of the new Marines - the ones they'd rescued from the French ship.

Mac-Something. MacIntosh? No, that wasn't it. Oh. "McIntyre," he said, hoping he'd got the right name.

Hopefully he could make it through the rest of the watch ringing the bell himself. He would just have to remember not to strike it too hard. Or too softly. Steadiness. That was the key. Whoever took this post next watch could deal with the missing bellrope.

The steady tramp of shod feet over the deck announced somebody's approach. Only officers and Marines wore shoes, mostly, and a cool drop of nervous sweat tickled its way down the back of McIntyre's neck. If it was an officer, he had no chance. Hell. He had no chance regardless who it was.

"All's well, Corporal," he replied, and winced internally at the lie. All was not well and he knew it.

Thompson was about to tell him to carry on, when something caught his eye. Or, rather, something that should have caught his eye failed to do so. "Anythin' to report?" he asked, despite the fact that the 'all's well' report suggested that there was not.

His father had always told him it never paid to lie to a corporal, but it was already too late to take back that first mistruth. Nothing to do except hold his ground. Unsteady as it was and crumbling fast.

"No, Corporal."

Oh, this was no use. There was going to be trouble for someone, no matter what. Thompson was damn sure he didn't want any of Terpsy's Marine detachment to be in trouble, but that possibility was looking remote.

He was also damn sure that he didn't want to end up getting raked over the coals himself, whether by his own officer or (and much, much worse) by Captain Bolitho.

One thing was clear: He could not see the bell-rope, for whatever reason, and McIntyre seemed sure that everything was as it should be.

Maybe he'd got ahead of himself, though. He was still so new to the rank that it felt as though he was seeing trouble, or potential trouble, around every corner.

And if he only thought something was wrong, that was nothing like enough reason to go blurting things out and making mountains out of molehills. There was another five bells, two and a half hours, before the end of the watch. Hopefully that would be plenty of time to either confirm or disprove the feeling in his gut that it wasn't quite 'all's well' up here.

He nodded. "Very well. Carry on."

Bugger, McIntyre thought. The corporal knew. Well. Of course he did. He wasn't pressing the matter, however, which only served to deepen the leaden feeling in McIntyre's gut.

"Aye aye, Corporal," he said and vowed to keep a closer watch out, in case the bellrope should decide to return. Not that this was very likely to happen, he mused gloomily.

~

Up on the foc's'le, a pair of seamen grinned at each other, and one slipped a hand underneath his short blue jacket, to reassure himself that his prize was still safely tucked away.

Thompson nodded and turned to move aft again, thinking fast. Now the question was: How could he deal with this without having to take it further and get people into trouble if they didn't ought to be got into trouble?!

As far as he could see, without asking McIntyre outright to drop himself in it, what had happened was that the man had nodded off (which was easily enough done at this time of night, Thompson knew from experience) and someone had taken advantage of that to whip the bell-rope.

In other words, Mcintyre was likely to get into trouble no matter what happened.

If Thompson tried to cover for him, that would lead to Thompson's getting in trouble in turn. And if not, well, sleeping on sentry-go was a court-martial offence, though nodding off could possibly be covered under Article 36 and a round dozen or so.

He wondered if there was a third way out of this.

The two seamen on the foc's'le exchanged relieved grins when they saw the corporal make his way aft. They were in the clear for now. All that remained was to get their prize below, so it could be put to use.

~



Interfering in the Marines' business was something to be avoided in most circumstances. That was one of the unspoken rules of the lower deck. Especially after the Marines' recent interference in the sailors' business. The foremast lads were perfectly happy to let the bullocks go whistle, Ballard knew.

All the same, he found it hard to let certain things pass without at least making an attempt to sort them out. He padded down the quarterdeck stairs, confident that his helmsman could keep the ship from scuttling if left alone for a minute or two.

"There's some white hemp below, if you're needin' some," he said to the corporal, without preamble. He could nudge the bullock in the right direction willingly enough, but he'd be damned if he exchanged pleasantries with him.

All that remained now was to try to find something to serve as a bell-rope, at least temporarily.

And then a sailor came over and volunteered the location of some white hemp. "Thanks," he replied, wondering just what exactly the sailor knew of the affair.

Maybe he could get this sorted out without McIntyre getting in trouble... Hopefully the Marine would learn from it and not end up getting into this sort of scrape again. Thompson was not willing to risk his neck for folks who weren't going to learn from their mistakes.

He headed below to find what he needed.

That had been easy enough. No telling if the bullock could actually find the necessary cordage though. But that wasn't Ballard's concern. He'd done his bit. Shrugging, he headed back up to the quarterdeck.

~

"Bullock!" Joe Crabtree hissed, hearing the heavy clomp of shoes on the ladder. He hunched lower behind the Number Six gun and hoped the shadows on the gundeck would conceal him and his mate.

Whether he could actually find the required hemp would be a different matter, of course. And he could have sworn he'd heard a voice over the creaking and working of the ship.

Damn. He lifted the lantern higher to see what there was to be seen - if there was anything out of the ordinary, anyway.

The two seamen hunkered down low, their work temporarily forgotten. It was more important to avoid discovery. This would have been possible had not the marlinspike Crabtree had been using slipped from the rope it was partially tucked into and clunked to the deck.

And something went thud behind him. He turned lightning-fast. It sounded as though it had come from between Numbers Six and Seven guns. "All right, then, show yourselves - an' no funny business," he said, lifting the lantern higher.

Crabtree returned Pascoe's glare without flinching. It wasn't his fault! It wasn't!

Neither seaman offered a reply to the bullock's challenge, however. The only movement was made by Crabtree, who slowly eased the cordage they'd been working on out of sight down his trousers.

"I said, come out o' there," Thompson said. That had not been a usual sound, and he was on the alert now for trouble. He moved towards Number Six gun, making a mental note to speak to Combes afterwards, in case he'd seen anything from his position at the Cabin door.

If they were quiet and quick, they could slink away between the carriages and the curve of the hull. Maybe. Crabtree eased himself toward the narrow space, hoping Pascoe would follow his lead. They couldn't be caught. Especially not by a bullock.

What they needed was a distraction. Where were the ship's boys when you needed them? Crabtree slithered forward on his side, his belly scraping along the front of the carriage. Never a nipper around except when they weren't wanted!

Thompson was nearly up to Number Six now. "Hold it right there!" he said. Those shadows definitely weren't from the gun or its carriage.

Whatever they'd been up to, it couldn't be anything good. Though why they'd been up here on the gundeck rather than down in the hold, the Marine couldn't say.

Damn it. It was all Crabtree could do not to curse. He froze where he was, wedged between carriage and hull, and contemplated the likelihood of being able to wriggle through and then run for it.

Behind him, Pascoe had no need for such considerations. He came to his feet and bolted, heading forrard for the ladder leading down. If he could reach the messdeck, he'd be safe.

"Stand fast there!" Thompson made a grab for the man's shirt even as he bellowed the order, heedless of the fact that he was very likely to wake the Captain, not to mention the watch below.

Now, what the hell had they been up to, skulking around by the guns like that?

The grip on his shirt stopped Pascoe short, but Crabtree took advantage of the Marine's distraction to drag himself clear of the carriage. He was gone in an instant, ducking around the next gun and making for the ladder to safety.

A short length of thick white braided hemp lay forgotten on the deck in his wake, barely visible in the shadows.

The Marine's shout had roused several men, however, and these blinking, half-dressed sailors were coming up from below, joined by a rush of men from the duty watch topside.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

The other man was dashing for'rard towards the companionway and Thompson couldn't let go of the man he had hold of. "Stop him!"

"What in the hell d'you think you was playin' at?" Thompson wanted to know, resisting the temptation to give his captive a shake.

None of the seamen who'd appeared from up forrard made any move to obey, though it was impossible to tell if their inaction was due to confusion or defiance. Nor did the Marine's captive offer a word in reply to the question put to him.

"The devil's all this ruction for?" Mister Rutland demanded, arriving on the scene with a lantern held high so he could see.

"Are you watch below, or watch on deck?" Thompson wanted to know, looking at the sailor he'd collared. "Either way, you oughtn't to be skulkin' about down here." He turned to the bosun's mate. "He was skulkin' 'tween two of the guns with a mate, tryin' to keep out the light. Looked like they was up to no good, to me."

And with twelve years' service to his name, Thompson was no raw recruit to be bamboozled into thinking things were all above board when they weren't.

Pascoe's only response was a grimace, but Mister Rutland was of no mind to tolerate such foolery.

"Will Pascoe," he said, not sounding surprised. Not that he would even if he was. "Give over. I know how to sort him."