2nd June: Off-watch in the Wardroom

Leat entered the wardroom with barely restrained haste, removing his dripping hat and boatcloak as soon as the door was shut behind him. A sudden squall had come up two hours into his watch, and though had not been violent was enough to get every man on deck thoroughly drenched. It had all but blown itself out now, but even so Leat had been more than happy to hand the watch over to Tadcock (the big Master coming on deck already swathed in his wet weather gear) so that he could at last head below to rid himself of his wet clothes and find a glass of something warming.

With this in mind he immediately crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy, then proceeded to down it in one go.

"Damp up there, sir?" Cartwright asked casually, noting the sea officer's sodden appearance. He had not been on deck himself, there not being a need for him to do so, and had therefore avoided exposure to the elements.

He did feel sympathy for the unfortunate lieutenant, however. It was never comfortable to be that sort of wet.

Leat closed his eyes briefly, letting the liquid burn its way down his gullet before he replied.

"Just a bit," he said. Most likely Cartwright would have felt the shift in the ship's motion as the squall hit. "Nothing serious, though. It'll blow itself out during the next watch, I should imagine."

That was good news. Cartwright glanced distastefully at the goblet of wine the wardroom steward had set on the table for him before shrugging. He had hardly drunk anything but the brackish water from the scuttlebutt since that one evening ashore.

"No doubt it will," he said, trusting the sea officer's judgment.

Throwing caution to the wind Leat poured himself another glass of brandy, then took it over to the table with him as he sat down opposite and a couple of seats along from Cartwright.

"All in all, I am glad to be back at sea," he said, sighing as he wiped back a few escaped locks of wet red hair from his forehead.

The Marine grinned. "So am I. Oporto did not agree with me. It's good to be away from it!"

Leat grimace despite himself. The bruising from his black eye was still not entirely gone.

"I find myself agreeing with you, Mr. Cartwright. I don't think that city agreed with any of us very well. Doubtless the captain is as relieved as us to be away too."

Port caused all sorts of problem beside the odd reckless debauch, plus Leat knew enough of their captain to know that inactivity did not suit him, and he had been growing increasingly restless over the passing days; eager to be away from the land once more.

His fingers prodded lightly at the base of the glass. "He does seem more at ease with the land firmly astern, doesn't he?"

The same general feeling Cartwright sensed amongst the Marines as well.

Leat nodded his assent. Bolitho came from a family with a proud tradition of sending its sons to sea (There had not yet been a generation of the navy that could not count a Bolitho amongst its number), but it was not merely the calling of his natural element that had made Captain Bolitho anxious to be at sea again. So many strange incidents, so much entangling itself with the army, so many accidents... Leat suspected that the captain hoped the recommencing of their cruise would breathe new life into his crew and improve their luck for the better.

Which somehow made him think of De Guarde. An involuntary frown creased Leat's brow. No amount of sailing would clear them of that problem, despite everything.

He took a sip of his brandy and leaned back in his chair, bracing one foot against the table automatically as the ship took a deeper roll than usual.

It amused him faintly to watch the wine slosh around in the glass with each motion of the ship. As long as it didn't spill.

"Have you sailed with him for long?" Cartwright was still finding his footing aboard, despite having joined in Lisbon. It felt like ages ago now but had been only a few weeks.

"Five months," Leat said. "Starting when the current crew was commissioned."

Somehow it seemed much longer. He gave Cartwright one of his customary small smiles.

"So you see, Mr. Cartwright, we do not have much of an advantage over you."

His train of thought was however interrupted by the arrival of Emily, she as usual having not taken long to become aware of her lieutenant's return to the wardroom, who jumped up onto his lap, purring. Leat smiled and scratched her round the ears.

"Hello, my sweet."

Five months. Not much longer than his own tenure aboard, that was true. Cartwright nodded.

"No indeed, sir," he said with a nod. The arrival of the ship's cat - or, more accurately, Mister Leat's cat - brought a smile to the Marine's face. "She is never far away, is she?"

"She never seems to be," Leat admitted, as the cat settled further into his lap. "Though I have often heard that she frequently stalks the cable tiers - and then brings the trophies of her hunt back for me to inspect."

Did she, now? "She must think well of you, then."

Which certainly seemed the case, given the creature's loud purring.

There was a cry of disgust in the third lieutenant's cabin, followed by the appearance of Deverel in the wardroom. "Who did this?" he demanded, holding up a dead rat by its tail. "Who put this in my shoes?"

There was a beat of silence, punctuated only by Emily's loud purring, in which the other two lieutenants stared from Deverel to the rat, and then back again.

"It may have perished in there of its own accord, Mr. Deverel," Leat offered, feigning ignorance.

Cartwright shook his head. "I know nothing of it," he confessed. "Certainly I shouldn't dare touch any man's shoes but my own."

Deverel narrowed his eyes and stared at the two men before summoning the steward. "Markham! Here man, dispose of this thing!"

Leat supressed a smile as the steward hastened to dispose of the dead rodent.

"One of the hazards of life aboard ship, Mr. Deverel," he commented, hoping that the new lieutenant would not make the connection between the purring cat on his lap and the dead offering in his shoes. "But I am sure you are already aware of that."

"Indeed," Cartwright agreed. "At least it was a dead rat!"

"I would hope Mr. Deverel is already aware of the hazards of life aboard ship," Bush remarked dryly as he walked into the wardroom, "I daresay he has seen a dead rat before. If not, then I should be in amazement at the level of cleanliness in which your former captain must have kept his ship."

"I've seen rats alive and dead on every ship in which I've served. But I've never seen one dead in my shoe before. Rats don't just lay down and die in a man's shoe. They crawl away to hide. Someone put it there, purposefully. Someone - " He stopped as his eye fell on the cat, and then he grimaced in realization. "Your cat. Does your cat go into my cabin?"

It was all Cartwright could do not to smile. The poor man was nearly hysterical. "Here, Deverel," he said amiably, pushing his wine glass forward. "Take a glass, it'll help settle your nerves."

Leat glanced to Bush as he came in, hoping that the first lieutenant would give his support against any accusations, then turned back to Deverel.

"I cannot be certain where she goes when I am not looking, Mr. Deverel," he answered soberly. He was starting to enjoy this. "But I have told her she is not allowed in any other cabin but mine."

Deverel rolled his eyes, but he was not one to say no to a drink. "Fine," he said as he pulled out a chair next to Leat and wiped his hands on his clothes. He gazed at the cat for a moment and then offered to rub her ears. "Don't know why she'd want to go in my cabin anyway. Who had it before?"