The Captain's Quarters

"Thank you, no." Leat declined the offer. He looked up at the sky - athin scattering of grey clouds skudding across a gibbous moon. He wondered whether he should tell Edrington the full circumstances of his signing on, for he was sure that the colonel knew that he had been deliberately vague, and might even be offended by his lack of confidence - or indeed think less of him, if he thought of a fourteen year old who had not chosen his own profession.

Besides, in the Navy it was nothing to be ashamed of.

"To be more specific, sir, I joined because I was pressed."

"Pressed?" Edrington paused, bringing his head down to shield the spark from the wind, and lighting the fresh cheroot. "At the age of fourteen. That must make your position difficult." He looked back at Leat. "I do not mean that your authority will be less because of your origins - I understand that rising from the ranks is well accepted in the Navy - but does it affect your attitude to the pressing of men?"

"Not really," Leat said, a little surprised that Edrington did not appear to think the worse of him for his origins. Usually Army officers were very touchy about officers 'from the ranks'. "I suppose I can sympathise with the men's plight, but regrettable as it is, the Navy needs men to man her ships... I accept it was my own fault as well; I'd lived in Portsmouth all my life and knew how to avoid the Press with the best of them - but one night my shortcut home took me too near their ground. And that, as they say, was that."

"You have done well. Clearly you would not recommend being pressed as the way to start a career in the Navy, but now you are a lieutenant - and rising - are you content with the choice fate made for you?" Edrington looked out towards the horizon. What was it about night time that made confidences so much easier?

"Well, I suppose so, on the whole - seeing as certain aspects would have been no different to my trade ashore."

Here he turned and gave the colonel a ghoulish little smile.

"My father is an undertaker, you see."

Thompson was glad that Leat was satisfied with his explanation. He disliked coming to the attention of an officer; it often spelled trouble, and it was worse when the officer in question actually knew your name.

He slipped below to retrieve his pipe before returning topside. He paused for a moment at the top of the companionway, glancing toward the quarterdeck where he could just see the silhouettes of Leat and Edrington. The tip of the Colonel's cheroot glowed brighter as he took a pull on it.

The Marine turned for'ard, pulling his baccy pouch out. It was nice out here, after the formality of the Great Cabin and the stuffiness of below decks.

There was a voice behind his shoulder. "Hello, mate." It was Billy Barrow standing there with a friendly grin on his face. "Survived the dinner, I see?"

Thompson turned, pausing in his methodical filling of his pipe bowl.

"Aye, I did. Just about. I see the skylarkin' finished early."

"Ah, well not entirely. Some of the lads just went below. Talking of which..." Billy looked around cautiously and lowered his voice. "Everything all right with Mister Yates and the new young gentleman? I saw them a while ago, and Johnny Stenhouse." He didn't elaborate, but he figured Thompson would understand.

Thompson lowered his voice as well, as he finished filling the bowl of his pipe. "Mister De Guarde had a sight too much to drink and fair terrorised young Johnny, after the Doctor switched his wine f'r some weaker stuff. The young gentleman went to get up, and threw up all over Mister Bush, who was more'n a bit cross with him. I reckon he's in trouble now, right enough. Or will be, come mornin'."

Billy was astonished. "Sick on Lieutenant Bush!" It was too horrific to even be funny. He shook his head in amazement, scarcely able to imagine such a thing.

News travels fast on a 32-gun frigate. Joseph Preddie rushed up to the pair, asking in an excited whisper, "Is it true? That the new young gentleman drank every bottle of wine and was sick over the whole table right when they'd brought in a flaming pudding???"

Thompson grinned. "Who told 'ee that? He din't drink ev'ry bottle, only the most of one by hisself. And he managed to throw up on Mister Bush, not the whole table - and that was afore afters was carried in."

He grinned. "There's goin' to be fireworks tomorrow, or me name ain't George Thompson!"

"Sick on Mister Bush! Hear that lads?" he cried, turning around to shout.

"Joseph Preddie, shut up," Billy said. "At least, here on deck with officers about," he added, nodding to where a small group of the men were smoking and standing about. "Though everyone will know soon enough. Poor Mister De Guarde. I'd almost feel sorry for him - if it weren't for Cob Chase."

Thompson turned to Preddie in alarm. "Hey, hey... keep it down, will ye? I don't need to get in trouble f'r tellin' ye, lads. Right? 'Sides, watch below won't thank ye for yellin' fit to wake the dead, neither."

Preddie grinned sheepishly. "Sorry mate. No harm done," and shuffled away quickly to join his friends.

Thompson watched the sailor slink off, looking embarrassed. He turned to Barrow. "How is Cob Chase, anyways?"

That might explain why the young man was so gently spoken, Edrington thought. An undertaker - particularly one who wanted a better class of client - would adopt some of the mannerisms of those clients. As a son who would take over the business (assuming that the father was in business for himself) young Leat would have learned those manners.

Why that would fit a man for life on board ship though, Edrington did not see. Occasionally sailors would bury their dead, but usually uncoffined, and without the need to dig a grave or ... But rather than ask for an explanation of the remark he said: "So you would followed him into his trade, as I did my father. But you make your own way now."

Billy caught a glimpse of the red coat on the quarterdeck as someone walked past with a lantern

"How'd your officer behave then? Did you have his lordship or t'other one?" he asked Thompson.

"I got his Lordship. Seems nice enough, but kept axin' me stuff." He'd like to get to know the Colonel a bit better, but it wasn't going to happen; officers - especially those who were Lords - didn't come and find you to talk about things with.

(OOC - I'm for bed. See you around!)

"Askin' you stuff. What kinda stuff?"


[ooc - good night!]

"Just about the skylarkin' and that," Thompson answered, carefully lighting his pipe. "Bein' as he's an Army officer, and don't know our ways, like."

The dancing had gradually ended, leaving Branning happily weary. There weren't many other ways to spend an evening better than skylarking.

"Ain't fer them Army officers t'know our ways," he grunted, trundling up on Thompson and Barrow as the other Marine was finishing speaking. "Don't do fer us t'be too familiar wit' that lot, an' all!"

"True," Thompson replied. "But if they ask you summat, you have to answer their questions, don't you? An' he seemed nice enough, o' course. Not like that there young gentleman what got Cob Chase a striped shirt at the gangway."

Hmph. That was true. Branning shrugged carelessly and looked out at the faintly-glimmering sea. "S'pose there's good 'uns in the land service. Just like a'sea," he allowed and tried not to think of poor Chase tied up at the grating.

"S'pose there's bad 'uns at sea, like there is anywhere," Thompson said, wishing the Marine officer were more like the Army colonel. "How's Chase doin', anyhow?"

He hadn't seen him when he'd gone below for his pipe, but of course the Marines didn't mess with the sailors, and he hadn't been anywhere near the seaman's berth.