Friday morning with the Marines

"So," Foley asked after a few minutes' pause. " 'Bout time somebody tripped over that ringbolt, I thinks."

He glanced up briefly to see how Oxley was progressing, barely managing to hide another smirk. Truth be told, he was glad the lad had give that troublesome Tar a thumping.

"Only told him how things was an' how folks see him," Oxley said, without thinking and then looked up. Why did he he always have to go and put his foot in it? He was sitting here in Lieutenant Cartwright's cabin, with who knew what officers in ear-shot and he'd as good as admitted he'd had a fight.

He looked down again. "Bloody bastard tried to do me wrist for me, an' all," he muttered to the jacket in his lap.

This time, Foley didn't bother to hide his grin. About time somebody told De Guarde how things were. He stepped away from the hammock and moved back to his officer's sea-chest. This was his first opportunity to give Cartwright's uniforms a proper looking-over since they'd left Lisbon.

"Ain't wise, goin' after a drummer's wrist," Foley acknowledged with a slight nod. "Long's you gave him a good thump back."

Oxley gave a quick grin at that. "'Course I did. Wasn't about to let him give me a sprain, was I? It's bad enough Thompson not bein' able to do his duty 'cause of a busted ankle, without me bein' on th'sick list an' all. The Shepherd lads wouldn't've like doin me duties for me, neither."

He switched to another button, hoping he wasn't going to talk himself into any more trouble. This was Lieutenant Cartwright's steward he was talking to, after all, and who knew what he might say to the officer?

That was about what he expected. Good lad, this Oxley.

"Well done, boyo. Nice piece of work, sure," Foley told him as he shook out a pair of Cartwright's trousers. "Ain't easy, sortin' out them Tars that like makin' trouble. Usually end up doin' just like you is now, for it!"

He sighed, concentrating on the job he was doing for a moment before looking up again.

"You ain't a-goin' to tell Mister Cartwright what I just tole you, are you?" he said, a little anxiously. "'Cause I tole him an' the doctor both I just took a tumble over a ring-bolt up on the gundeck, and knocked meself on a cannon. An', well, I knows they know, but it's diff'rent, tellin' folks what 'appened, like."

"Course not," Foley assured him. He paused in his own work long enough to pat his side. "I gots this job for takin' a fall meself, y'know. Got real unsteady one evenin' an' tripped over somebody's kit. Nasty scrape it gave me, too."

"Oh." Oxley went back to his polishing for a bit before looking up again. "I never meant to get in a fight, y'know. 'Specially not wit' a Tar. I jus' didn't know he'd take it so bad, what I said to him."

Most Tars were decent sorts, in Foley's experience. Or at least decent enough to know not to try fighting Marines.

"Well, I s'pose that's because that Tar really ain't a Tar. He's just a spoilt middie in a Tar's slops, is all." Foley found himself grinning again. "If I seen anythin' 'bout those Shepherd lads, they'll find a way to set that De Guarde boy to rights."

Oxley nodded. "He is that an' all. Tried to s'ggest I'm a disgrace to me uniform." He grinned mirthlessly. "I ain't the one what's runnin' around in slops 'cause of bein' a disgrace to me uniform, though. An' Sticks'll think up some caper or other, or me name ain't Tom Oxley. I jus' hope I'm around to see it, that's all."

He shrugged. "I dunno how them Tars can put up with 'im, though, I really don't."

Hmph. Mister Cartwright needed to stop putting holes in his shirts, Foley thought unhappily. He fished out his sewing kit and threaded a needle, nodding as Oxley spoke.

"That's a disrated middie for you. I hear he weren't much of a middie anyway." The steward shrugged. "Whatever you lads get up to, don't get caught with it. I ain't lookin' to get replaced!"

Oxley grinned at that. "I don't reckon any of us'll be half as good at doin' what you do as you are, Mikey," he said, glancing up before looking critically at the button he'd just been working on, and giving it another rub. "As if Mister Cartwright'd want any of us anyway, after you do such a gran' job of lookin' after him."

If getting caught playing jokes on people was going to lead to doing this sort of thing all the time, though, Oxley was going to make absolutely certain he wasn't going to be caught. He didn't want to end up permanently under Mister Cartwright's scrutiny, after all.

"Hard to tell with Mister Cartwright," Foley replied. "He's an all right officer, but sometimes he's hard to puzzle out. Clever's the devil though!"

He glanced over to see how Oxley was faring with the button-polishing and nodded his approval. Once the boy was finished, he'd get him the brush and see how he did with that.

"You bin with him long?" Oxley asked, shifting the jacket a little to get at the next few buttons. He hoped the garment wasn't getting too crumpled as he worked on it; he'd be bound to be on the receiving end of a few choice words if it was.

The lieutenant certainly seemed like an all right officer, but then, anyone was better than the drunken sot they'd had before, who'd left pretty much everything to Sergeant Quinn to do.

He had to think about that for a moment. "A year or so, I think. Replaced the slob who was his old steward. Not a bad punishment for scrappin'." He didn't add that Cartwright's taking him on as steward had saved him from getting drummed out. That was a little too much information for the lad.

"Reckon he'll end a colonel. Hope I'll still be with him when he does!"

Scrapping? So this wasn't the first time the officer'd handed this duty out to someone caught fighting - or as good as caught fighting, in Oxley's case.

"I ain't plannin' on takin' your job away from you, Mikey, promise," he said, rubbing at yet another button. "I like me own job too much f'r that. An' I sure as hell ain't goin' to get caught scrappin' ag'in."

The next time might mean a meeting with the cat, and Oxley wasn't at all eager for that particular experience.

This time, Foley chuckled. "Don't really blame you, neither. There ain't many lads who'd want my job. Got its perks, though. Like this here," he said, fishing around in Cartwright's sea-chest for a moment. He held up a battered linen sack and shook out a few pieces of horehound candy.

Oxley looked up, and his eyes widened. "Is that... is that... candy?" he asked, almost unable to believe what he was seeing.

He'd only once had candy, real proper candy, when he was very young.

"Does Mister Cartwright know you know...?" he asked, and looked down. Stupid question; of course he did - must do.

"It is," Foley answered. "Take a couple bits, ain't gonna bite you."

The lad's earnestness made him smile. What it would be, to be that young again. He helped himself to a piece of the candy and nodded. "Oh aye, he knows. Allows me three pieces every coupla days. Almost better'n rum, these is!"

He reached forward, slightly gingerly, and took a couple of pieces, putting one into his mouth.

Mmm... he'd forgotten it was that sweet. He'd forgotten anything could be that sweet.

"'S real nice, that," he said, savouring the taste. It'd almost be worth running around after an officer, to get proper candy for it, he thought, and shot a conspiratorial grin at Foley.

Foley nodded as he selected a piece for himself. That was as much as his allowance permitted, but it was not a loss to only have one piece. Oxley's obvious delight at the treat made it worth it.

"Aye, 'tis so," he said, returning the lad's grin. "Got an awful sweet tooth, Mister Cartwright."

Well, Oxley could understand that - and at least the man could afford to indulge it, too.

"Thanks," he said, and then realised that the other had only taken one piece. "Did I take it out of your 'lowance?" he asked and held his hand out to offer him the other piece he'd taken. "Didn't realise that."

"Bah," Foley said by way of reply. "I been sneakin' extra pieces here an' there fer weeks. Bad for me gut, y'know."

He picked up his needle again. "Just mind you don't get that coat sticky!"

He grinned and popped the second piece of candy into his mouth. "'Course I won't, Mikey," he said. It'd be more than his life was worth if he did get it sticky. It was much brighter than his own jacket, and probably cost more money than the drummer would ever see all together in one place.

He bent his head to carry on with the polishing he was doing, savouring the sweet taste in his mouth as he did so.

Good lad, Foley thought as he went back to work repairing Cartwright's shirt. It was nice to have some company while working, for a change. It could get awful tiresome being the only one in the wardroom, as tended to happen.

After a fashion, he tied off the thread and cut the extra length close to the knot. Not a bad stitching job at all, he thought after holding the shirt up for inspection. "All finished there, boyo?"