The Captain's Quarters

It was obvious what Thompson meant, of course. Men tended to feel responsible for their officers' behaviour, just as the officers did for their men, but with much less chance of controlling it.

"No need," Edrington responded just as softly. "It is not unknown in the Army." But rarely left unchecked for long.

Thompson straightened up again, grateful for the Colonel's understanding. Brandeson was a disgrace, really, to the ship and to the Corps, but he was a 'gentleman' and thus Thompson's better.

He wished he had someone more like the Colonel as their officer.

And that exchange, Edrington realized after he had spoken, should not have taken place. Thompson would not normally criticise his own officer to another, nor should he have encouraged him, even tacitly agreed. He should have been outraged at the man's impudence. But he was not. He smiled to himself and turned back to Lieutenant Leat, hoping that the exchange had not been overheard.

Thompson shot a nervous glance at Lieutenant Leat. Had he heard the Marine's apology? Would he take it the wrong way, if he had? He hadn't meant to be impudent, of course, and had only just realised that what he'd said might be taken that way.

Brows shot up when Brandeson finally saw fit to speak again. For a moment, George felt himself stiffen and his temper rise, but a glance at the marine officer was more than enough to diffuse his annoyance. A scrap of boyhood Latin rose up from the depths of memory and the ghost of a smile teased the corner of his mouth at the words: Absentem laedit, cum ebrio qui litigat*. Nothing could be truer, he supposed.

Crozier had jumped in hastily to cover for Brandeson's faux-pas and George let the subject die quietly away, the topic shifting towards a talk of firearms; he turned his eyes to Edrington with unfeigned interest. "Truly, my lord? A fine weapon, if you'll permit me to say." George smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps I might prevail upon you to show her off before the end of the voyage? I daresay the young gentlemen might enjoy the show," he added, glancing down the table at the group of silent midshipmen. "With your permission, of course, Captain," he continued, turning back towards Bolitho at the head of the table.

[*A fellow who argues with a drunk is abusing an absent man.]

"If the Captain permits, I shall be delighted. Particularly if the weather holds fair. I acquired it when I was in London before joining the ship, and have had no chance to test it myself. I am not quite sure what to expect." Edrington smiled across at Findlay: "Are you familiar with it? We may need to put our heads together to give the young gentlemen a demonstration."

[For those interested, this is the Girandoni]

Thompson thought it sounded interesting, but of course he couldn't say anything. Be nice to see something other than a Sea Service musket or pistol, for once.

Though of course seeing was as close as he'd get to it - if he was even allowed that much.

Peter had heard the drunken rumble coming from the far end of the table, and the doctor's quick attempt to change the subject, to gloss over the man's insulting words. But his attention kept returning to de Guarde, whose flushed face showed the effect of the constant refilling of his glass. The boy's eagerness to 'earn' Peter's grog became more sinister - some men drank too much on a regular basis, and some could not refrain. It looked as if de Guarde was one of those, young as he was. Would Mr Bush notice? Or Kinsella? Or - and this was a real possibility - would they allow de Guarde to drink too much, to teach him a lesson?

Perhaps if de Guarde were to join in the conversation he would be slow down and not drink so much. He leaned forward, seizing on the last topic and asked: "Mr de Guarde, have you ever fired a rifle?"

He was about to lift the glass to his lips when a question was sent his way. He paused at first, unsure if he heard correctly, and should Yates not have used his name, he would think he addressed his neighbour. Seeing as it was, he slowly lowered the glass.

"...No. I've never."He answered, the question an easy one. However it was harder to continue with a question or a bit of conversation on his own. A small glance to his glass, then to Yates gave him a small bit more time.".. And yourself?... "Then he tapped a finger against the firm surface of the table thoughtfully. "..'tis.. fine dining.. don't you agree?..pleasant good food. And plenty of it."He smiled. He felt warm and pleasant, which showed as the tension from earlier now left his shoulders, which relaxed.

"No - not a rifle. But I have fired a shotgun, once." He had not hit his target, and his father had been angry with all of them, for going out with a shotgun without an adult - although Charles had pointed out that if he was old enough to join the army and fire a musket at the French, he was surely old enough to fire a shotgun at a tree, and to look after three younger brothers. "They have muskets on ships, though, don't they?"

Peter grinned. "Excellent food." A glance which he hoped contained just enough warning. "It is difficult to remember not to eat too much. But we should pay for it in the morning."

"Yes, they do.. not the same as those landies.."He answered stealing a small sip from the glass:"...shorter.. our own. Not by much, but... 's fer the sea use. Differen' than that on land. You'd see more differences if you compared them.. ofcourse." He hesitated then corrected his statement on food."...Excellent. Delicious."He chuckled softly raising his glass slightly as if making a toast to the food. Not too obvious though to draw that much attention.

"And wine..., 've not had better."As if to emphasize his point, he took another sip and motioned to the young midshipman to do the same."I've not seen you touch a drop of it.."He murmured so softly, that he could also have been talking to himself. "..Have you hit anything?...with the shotgun that is?"He tilted his head slightly to the side, enjoying the taste that remained behind, changing subtly in time.

Bolitho had not been pleased by Brandeson's crass drunken comment, but thankfully the conversation had moved away to different, better topics.

"Permission granted, Major," he said, turning to Findlay, "I think it would be a fine thing to see a demonstration of His Lordship's rifle. I must admit, I would be rather interested in seeing it myself."

[OOC: Provided His Lordship is careful where he aims that rifle...

And Dr. Crozier, did I hear you mention a fresh salad? Praytell, where have you been growing those greens?]

Peter listened to de Guarde's slightly rambling explanation about the muskets, and watched the boy drink more. He was going to disgrace himself, and that would only make matters worse. Someone should stop him, he was ... De Guarde was not a child. He had deliberately had a man flogged this afternoon, and Peter did not think he was drinking to help him forget that fact. De Guarde probably wanted to remember it clearly. He had watched it intently enough. He did pick up the wine glass and took a sip, barely wetting his lips. He couldn't judge its quality, but he thought that Bolitho would not have served inferior wine, not to these guests.

The question gave him another chance to distract him from his drinking. "No, we were firing at a target on a tree. And I missed anyway. But I think that we should learn musketry. It might be useful one day. Or pistols. Much more practical if we board." He took another lip-dampening sip. "Have you ever been in action?"

"Not very," Findlay admitted, with a shake of his head. "I have seen one - the Duke of Richmond has one in his collection - but I unfortunately missed the demonstration. A curious instrument, all the same. I confess I am alive with anticipation, my lord," he concluded before giving his thanks to the captain who had just given his permission.

When Bolitho mentioned the salad, George realized he had been too distracted by Brandeson to acknowledge the Doctor's offer. Somewhat embarrassed, he turned quickly to his neighbor and offered an apologetic look. "I'm afraid you will find me a sad boor, doctor. I shall be happy to accept some of your greens, provided none of them are an emetic," he replied with a broad grin.

"Sea servis' muskets are meant for boardin'.. n' more so, deflectin' our dear friends."He spoke the word with scorn and sarcasm:" from clambering onto our own."Finally a softer tone. He tipped the glass, moistening his lips and allowing some of the liquid to flow down into his throat.
His hand twitched once, it's hold tightening on the glass at the question.

"Perhaps I have."

"Have you?" He knew that the boy was not long on this ship, as Mr. Yates had told him himself and he doubted the boy knew a single B of a bloody battle.

Peter chuckled. "No, of course not. I should be of little use if anyone did try to board us. I could stab them with my dirk - but they'd probably have killed me before I got near enough." He smiled mischievously. "Since you are experienced in such matters, I will look to you to show me what to do."

"You'd be better paying attention to the enemy than what your fellows may be doin'."He answered with the last gulp. He closed his eyes briefly and smiled." Though... certainly, young man. I'll show you how to have a man harmed. Badly too. Bu' not with that attitude. If you believe you will be dead before you've started fighting... You certainly should jus' stab ye'self.. and save ye'self the misery of waiting for it to happen."He chuckled softly finding this oddly amusing.

"I'll teach ye.."He glanced to his hand that held the glass. Paled scar stretched thinly enough down its back. "How many times have you participated in a fight.. mr. Yates?"He asked and released the glass, adjusting his cuff that had started riding higher on his hand. He reached for the glass again and nudged it slightly by accident, before getting a proper grip."..with anybody mind you."

Peter stared at him. The boy was beginning to show signs of being drunk. He could have knocked the glass over. The ship's boy behind him would not dare to refuse to fill it, not after what had happened to Chase.

And did he really want to hurt people? Well, of course he did, if they were the enemy. That was what the frigate and her people were for - to attack the enemy, not to sail about and carry passengers to their own wars. And the question about fighting seemed to imply that he was some kind of soft touch. "I've fought," he said, "and not just with my brothers. Only we didn't use weapons. Just fists - and feet," he admitted.

"That's well enough. "he tapped the glass. While it was filled its owner leaned back in his chair slightly. "n' you won?"He asked, giving a critical eye to the boy. His concentration was soon lost though. He didn't drink this time, if only because he was waiting for Mr. Yates's answer. Eyes somewhat glassy, the youth still held enough composure not to slouch, nor act in manner that would be of poor conduct or downright offensive. Instead it was Mr. Yates that kept him well distracted and in some way in check.

Mister De Guarde was drunk. Thompson hoped someone would stop him having any more, before he made a fool of himself, or did something he'd later regret.

His own charge, being older, could hold his wine, though. He topped up Edrington's glass again, wondering what sort of rifle it was that he had.

"Sometimes," said Peter, not without pride. "Sometimes they were bigger than me, and I won." He touched his cheekbone in memory. "And one lad almost took my head off. I had a bruise that went every colour." He put his hand down. "I was really quite as proud of that as I would have been if I had won." He could see that de Guarde would not understand that, but at least he had slowed down on his drink. The marine behind the redcoated colonel had started watching de Guarde too. If the boy did make a fool of himself, here, with so many officers and men around, it would never be forgotten and he would never gain their respect. Which would be difficult anyway after today.

"You were proud of losing?" He was intrigued with the boy at such a statement and a tad bit baffled if he understood correctly at all. His glass waited on him this time, while he kept his gaze on the boy still questionably. "..not a commendable thing fer un'officer. " His hand lingered close to the glass, but before it managed to make poor aim at it's mark, it was placed well enough, back on the table.

He wanted to ask who most of the other men were, that were not in the navy, but bit his tongue wisely. He looked towards Thompson, but the man was most obscured by other men and standing servants. From his position he saw less than Thompson, standing. "..n'.. it was right."He murmured all of sudden, speaking not of anything related to Mr. Yates's success in fights nor about his pride in what he thought unconventional. "Proper. Deserving. learn't a lesson..'e did." He hadn't wanted to make a fool of himself by drinking, but the wine itself had been a prospect given too liberally. And now he was not yet realizing how important it was and how more it would be, if he would act wrongfully before the captain himself. Or Bush, who sat at his side, closest other than the rest of the midshipmen.

Thompson saw De Guarde look in his direction, but his eyes were slightly unfocussed.

Regardless, he switched his attention back to watching for the officer in front of him. This third glass had only been half-drunk and Edrington did not seem to want it refilled yet.

No, it really wouldn't do to get on the wrong side of that new young gentleman. Though, should he make a fool of himself here, it would take a long time for any of the hands - or the Marines - to be able to respect him as a person. Not that it wouldn't take time for that as it was, after this afternoon.

He wondered how Chase was doing.

The doctor had absolutely no interest in rifles. He was happy enough to let the more knowledgeable officers go on discussing whatever this remarkable new firearm was while he ate in peace.

Lt. Bush, never a great conversationalist, was looking rather inflamed by his neighbor at table, not the lieutenant-colonel but the new young gentleman on his other side, De Guard. The lad was drunk. The doctor did not even attempt to hide his look of irritation from Bush whose eye he had caught. Why the captain had to waste his excellent wine on simple boys...

He turned around and whispered to his attendant. "Bridgens, go to my cabin please and bring back the bottle reserved for special occasions." Bridgens, a discreet old soul, gave no acknowledgement other than a nod. Discreet still, he returned to the great cabin a few moments later with said bottle and placed it in front of the doctor without drawing any attention to himself or it. No one was paying any heed, including the drunken midshipman.

"Mister Bush, will you take a glass of wine with me?"

Bush looked curious, but he downed what remained in his glass and slid it across to Crozier. "Thank you, doctor. With pleasure."

Crozier filled the glass with the fine-looking liquid. But with a significant glance, still holding the lieutenant's eye, he cocked his head towards De Guarde before returning the glass to its owner. Bush murmured his thanks. Then, in a highly creditable action, Bush reached with one hand to place the wine glass above De Guarde's plate, while whisking away the boy's own glass with the other. The boy never noticed.

"To your health, Mister Bush," Crozier said mildly.

Of course the poor wretch standing behind De Guarde had been witness to it all. The doctor gave him an innocent look of acknowledgement, and also inclined his head towards the bottle in front of him, indicating that the lad might make free use of its watery contents throughout the rest of the evening.

Oblivious of the exchange the young midshipman was still lost in his thoughts, the distraction much induced by the alcohol he had consumed. He saw Bush and Crozier in the minimal exchange of conversation and a subtle toast. He wondered how a single bottle came to sit at the table and figured that one must have sent for it. Different slightly to the others, his guess was only, the doctor.
He touched his glass, previously that of Bush, and took a silent sip. Unsure of his senses he had almost believed something to be different with this sip than the one he had before.

His servant for the occasion, felt uncertain at the indication of the doctor. He feared the wrath of the young gentleman to whom he was obliged. Would the captain agree to this exchange? He did not wish to get himself in trouble for a small prank a doctor would do, though he noticed that the first lieutenant was onto it as well. Surely if that man agreed and even exchanged the glasses, that to exchange the bottles, would be as right? But if he was seen by the young gentleman, would he not be the only one to carry blame? He remembered Chase, the good man and sailor, be ordered flogged because of this boy. What if the boy somehow noticed and remembered his face. His life could turn miserable for displeasing the young gentleman. Being singled out for one transgression would be a thing to be forgiven by some, but this boy might take a life time offense!

He hesitated, clutching the wine bottle in his hand. He was about to pass his, and go to fetch the offered when..

"..Where're ye going?" Mathew's voice was soft and subtle, yet his arm held fast onto his shoulder, a uncomfortably tight grip. To the eyes of others though, it may have just seemed like a simple hold, for the request of something.

His gaze was not fully focused, yet certainly trained on the boy.
The 'servant's shy gaze escaped to the bottle beside the doctor. It was smoothly followed by De Guarde's. He furrowed his brows together, squinting his eyes and then shook his head. " ..'if sir Bush would wish that we join in tastin' the wine that t' doctor 'as brought, he would so invite."He spoke stiffly to the poor boy.