Breakfast - Sunday 21st - on deck

With a fair night's sleep, his hammock stored away, his breakfast nice in his belly De Guarde decided to spend the remaining time, before it was time to head of to do his duty, admiring the sun, enjoying its warmth, all that seated comfortably on the railing. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the sea that surrounded them. There weren't any ships in sight and the clouds - how many there were - covered a small portion of the sky.

He was justified in not having to do anything, and nothing at the moment meant tending to his hair which had gotten somewhat loose and more messy than usual. He combed it out with his fingers, the ribbon tucked under his thigh so that any breath of wind couldn't steal it away into the sea. The taste of grog still lingered in his mouth as did the food they've had for breakfast. Nothing mouth watering, as always. A bit of chocolate from his mother's letter had made some amends to it but the rest was furiously guarded and hidden away, from rats and from any thiefs willing to take what wasn't theirs. Most of the men were still below eating, he'd just finished quicker than them.

He noticed the pair of guests on deck. Looking back to his hair - loose still at present - he began to bring apart the last of the knots. He touched his elbow, one and the other with the slight bit of discomfort. The bruising was just that, but at not the kindest of places, the later of which made it a nuisance.

He yawned, without bothering to place a hand before his mouth then glanced out to the sea. It was peaceful and serene, but for the usual indicators of the wind which filled their sails. Nothing like what it was in a storm. Not that sort of monster.

He thought he saw something and maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. But he wasn't needed. Not what he thought really. Steadying himself silently he began to tie the hair back again. It wouldn't be as proper and right as if he had someone to do it, but he couldn't right go and ask either...

He turned to observe with a lifted brow. Men acting as children, that's what it was. But then it was a Frog there, a creature that caused trouble and yet walked about as if he'd owned the ship, and then there was the doctor whose sanity seemed to have just been questioned. He doubted he'll have met him in person, no more than a distant passing..

He yawned, rather unfazed. He counted the sails that were unfurled as if he'd needed to and listened for the bells, to hear when the breakfast would end and they'd all be called back to some form of work, then mess of course or some article reading. Easy to have his mind wander then. And whatever else the ship had in store after that.

It was Sunday, and later Monday would come again. And then?..well another day after, as always. The same.

He pushed from where he was sitting, dusted his slops as if they needed any dusting. Tightened the ribbon though it was nothing in comparison to those that other boys would make for their friends. He debated going and asking Thompson to do a proper tying. He couldn't exactly bring himself to frequent in asking a Tar, although there were a few Tars he was slowly starting to warm up to. Quite to the point that he'd trusted one to play a doctor for him. Westdale, who'd been teaching him to carve little things out of wood.

He stretched a little, with a yawn and made his way below. If nothing more he did have to change into his better slops and shirt.
No grumbling either, for their Bosun's mates and the Bosun himself will probably be at odds and ends of their wits.

"Lively now, lads!" Fletcher piped as he came along the deck, helped by the Bosun relaying the captain's orders as well. "Divisions! Let's see everyone turned out best for the captain!"

His encouragements were probably not of the most inspiring material, he reflected as the movement on deck picked up some urgency. However, it was enough for him; he had washed especially this morning - with soap - and combed his hair through. He was so clean in his opinion that he would not be surprised if he squeaked. Slater said that he squeaked anyway, but that was not the sort of squeaking he had in mind.

Ah, and there was young Mr. Fletcher and he was piping away at the men who hastened to go and change. He halted and gave way for a few of the taller, broader of the sailors. Wouldn't do to get in their way. He looked at Mr. Fletcher again. Studied the boy. He was - and it wasn't something that went easily to De Guarde's mind - turning out to be a promising young boy and officer. He scowled and took a step back again as two more sailors hurried past. And it was all just as he'd intended to get his slops ready.

De Guarde was staring at him, he realised, and Flectcher felt a twinge of the old fear returning. But he could not let that overtake him now; that wasn't done. He frowned back at the boy.

"Everyone! Lively!" he snapped, or as good an immitation of a snap he could manage.

De Guarde nodded and turned towards the companionway. He glanced over at Mr. Fletcher. There was a change in him. He thought he'd have seen only fear in him and yet he'd overcome it. He had to, for his next order showed none of it neither in voice nor int the way it was given.

He disappeared below and slapped his bare feet against the ground as he'd skipped a few steps. Having to wait on the others wasn't his preferable choice, but with as little space it was that and slipping past and under and around to reach his shared chest.

Fletcher felt a small flutter of triumph in his breast as De Guarde went below. He'd given an order - and De Guarde had obeyed it without insolence or threats! He felt so very happy, and wait until he told Peter... The flutter died in his breast when he remembered that no, actually he could not tell Peter. Not at the moment anyway; because he was afraid to talk to Peter. Yates had grown increasingly distant in these past few weeks that Simon had seen him become almost a completely different boy, and after he had returned from the landing party... He did not think that Peter would anymore be interested in his news, nor even be tolerant of him; so it was best not to seek him out. It had happened before of course - one moment a boy was your friend, the next he had found others far more interest or 'not so stupid' - only in Peter's case Fletcher though it was sadness instead of switching favour.

He wondered when the others would be up on deck. kinsella was here already, but the others must still be below putting the finishing touches to their rig.

The slops were neatly folded where he'd left them. Not a crease or wrinkle on the material , atleast not that many, meant he would look presentable enough. He pulled his shirt out and changed the present one all in quick sharp movements unwilling to stay as he were for longer than needed. Pulling at the ribbon in his hair he scowled as it had again slid lower, but there wasn't a time now to do much more about it. He rubbed his face a little, seen to it that his slops stood on his frame presentably, that his shirt was tucked in and rested rightly on his shoulders. With most of his hair where it should be, he added the finishing touches to his garment and then ducked from the sea chest in the direction of the deck.

He wondered how many midshipmen he would see, once he was back up. He knew where his division would stand. He yelped and cursed as someone had stepped on the toes of his left leg. He glared at the man but said nothing. Nothing even as he instead pushed for the companionway and was climbing up it again.

Oxley headed up topside, carrying his drum carefully. He clipped it to his freshly pipe-clayed crossbelt and headed aft to take up his position, relieving Andrew Shepherd. He saluted young Mister Fletcher, who was chivying the sailors to hurry up, and couldn't help grinning at the young midshipman. He was going to be a good officer one day, Oxley knew it. He wondered what he would make of the skylarking he and the other lads had planned for later.

There were some alright, and he saw the drummer boy, Oxley. The lad who'd awaken him the other night. He yawned at the thought then looked a bit worried. Walking himself to the line which was filling with sailors. He glanced from the red coated boy to the young Mr. Fletcher. A bit of envy was still there, for that coat. He straightened a little, adjusted his shirt, glanced at his feet and then up again.

Peter came on deck and walked to his place, as he had done before. Smart in his midshipman's coat, and with his hair brushed and dampened until it lay flat under his hat.

This, he hoped would be the last time for this Sunday inspection. They would be off Oporto, possibly by nightfall, and although he understood that the French were still in possession of the city, there would be an attack. It was not clear yet what part the Terpsichore would play - other than joining the blockade that would stop help reaching the French by sea. And once it was in British hands...

It was difficult to imagine the British being defeated, but if they were, then they would retreat ... He stared straight ahead, frowning slightly. That might mean that the Terpsichore would stay off the mouth of the river, and perhaps the Captain would not be able to send him ashore. But they would not keep the Doctor, or the Army Captain and his prisoner, so ...

Duncan, one of the seamen in Peter's division, was looking nervously at him, noticing the frown. Peter relaxed and replaced the frown with a smile. It would all work out, eventually, he was sure. In the meantime, he would just keep out of the way of everyone.

Peter was on deck and Fletcher's face fell a little. He looked tired, as he always seemed to look now, and his face was definitely closed. It was the look of a boy that definitely did not want to be there.

Though Yates turned and smiled at one of his Division's men, and to fletcher it seemed that it might be a true smile. Just might. Which also might mean...

He swallowed, and sidled up to the other boy, knowing there were only a few precious minutes before the Captain appeared to make his inspection.

"Good morning, Mr. Yates," he said hopefully. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, also hopefully. "Did you sleep well?"

As a fellow member of the berth it was a fairly inane question to ask; but the boy's conversation experience was limited, and he couldn't think of anything better to say.

"Good morning to you, Mr Fletcher," Peter answered automatically, but looking down at the younger boy he caught the uncertainty, and the hope that ... He had not been friendly, he knew. He had meant to be, but somehow nothing had gone right. Friendship meant confidences, and Peter had not wanted to burden anyone, least of all the innocent Fletcher, with his thoughts. Especially as they had turned blacker and bleaker. It was too late now to be the friend this boy needed, but at least he need not snub him, as he was sure he had done in the past. Or just not known how to respond.

"I did, after the Middle Watch - but that's never long enough. I'll sleep well tonight, anyway." If he could, and if they did not do the Great Guns again today, in consideration of Dr Crozier's condition, he might find somewhere quiet during the afternoon... The relief he had felt after speaking to the Captain meant that the sleepless hours he had spent worrying, now seemed to demand repayment.

"I am glad that you did," Fletcher said, nodding to reinforce his words. Peter was speaking to him at least, and not unkindly, which made Fletcher bolder. Peter was not looking so miserable now, he observed, which in turn did something to lighten his own spirit.

"If..." he began, then paused to make certain of his words. "If later you have a moment... would you come up to the masthead with me? If have not been up more than a few times for duty, and I have not been high. But it is no matter if you do not want to."

And he could understand well enough why he would not. But Fletcher had not be high up by himself, and he could not ask Kinsella or Chandos or Slater; they would laugh, he was certain. Julian had promised to, but then he... It would not happen now anyway.

The boy was nervous about him nowadays. He hadn't meant that ... Or possibly just nervous about going up to the masthead. Peter had done it a couple of times, when he had been more confident, and one of the topmen had been willing to go with him, then after the battle and with a broken arm he hadn't been able to. The climb with Mr Leat had been the first time he had been high for ages.

And it would be something there would be no more chance to do, after all. "All right," he said, looking up towards the mast head. "After dinner. You'll want to get Mr Leat to teach you to come down quickly - I've not mastered it myself, and would hate to try to show you - we'd both end up in the sea, or plastered all over the quarterdeck."

Fletcher's face broke into a broad grin.

"Thank you, Peter," he said enthusiastically, though careful to keep his voice lowered as Mister Bush strode past them. "I'll see you up here after dinner. And..."

He hesitated, becoming serious again, not knowing quite how or if he should say what he was about to say next.

"And I am glad that you are feeling better."

"I'll tell you about it later," Peter muttered, then turned away, as the cold eyes of Mr Bush swept across everyone, before allowing them to be inspected by the Captain. He would have to - although not all of it. Fletcher must be prepared for his departure: it would be hard, though not so difficult as if they had really become the friends he thought they might be...

A flicker of that misery returned to the older midshipman's face, but Fletcher could see that it was not because of him, but because Peter was thinking of something else. Which was a relief in a way, and showed that there was hope. Fletcher stiffened, waiting until Bush looked away again and nodded to Peter, risking the disapproval of any other superior that happened to be looking his way.

"Thank you," he whispered again.

And he hurriedly stepped back into his proper place, pulling down his jacket straight and fiddling his dirk into place.

Oxley swallowed a little as Mister Bush's eye passed over him critically before he turned to Mister Chandos. "Beat to Divisions, please," he said, and Oxley rolled his eyes. Why he couldn't give the order himself, he didn't know, but it was always like this on a Sunday. The officer of the watch told the midshipman of the watch to tell the drummer - when the drummer could hear every word the officer of the watch said. He unlimbered his drumsticks as Chandos trotted towards him.

"Beat to Divisions," he said, and Oxley nodded.

"Aye, aye, sir," he said, before beating the familiar rhythm that brought the men scurrying up from below to fall in in their Divisions, toeing the line with their officer or midshipman in front of them.

The Marines came past him in a stream of red to take up their own positions right aft, on the quarterdeck. His eyes widened as he saw Thompson among them still limping a little, but his face set and determined.

He was already there but stumbled a little as a few of the sailors of his Division pushed past, shouldering their way into place. He took a step back, toeing the line. Tugging at his shirt he straightened it and looked on towards the marines, trying to see some of their faces and see any he could recognize more. Oxley was drumming away, that he saw, as seeing the midshipmen too. Young Fletcher and further on Mr. Yates and so Chandos and the last two.

He caught himself frowning and turned his face with some will back into a flat and considerably emotionless. The sailors settled in, dressed in their best clothes as presentable as they could be. Ship's boys too somewhere, and so landsmen also.

He'd managed to button his gaiter up over the bandage round his ankle, and hoped he wasn't going to be in for a dressing-down later. He was still limping a little, but it wasn't as bad as it had been, though the joint was still swollen and tender to the touch, with a very colourful bruise.

He watched the men falling in: the fo'c'sle-men on the fo'c'sle, the waisters in the ship's waist, the afterguard just fo'rard of the quarterdeck. The Marines, of course, lined up in nice straight lines by the taffrail. The contrast between the Marines and the seamen was as marked as always, with the midshipmen and Lieutenants trying to get the seamen to stand up straight and stop fiddling with their jackets or hats or whatever it was.

Billy Barrow wouldn't come up to join in that day, that he was sure. He had been badly wounded and even if he would've by some miracle at the hands of their guest Doctor, felt better, he would not've been allowed back up. Good news however was that he was certainly still aboard the ship live and kicking. If that would not have been the case the below decks would've known. The same would have gone for their Doctor. Whom he hoped was on the mend as well. The cursed horse could have avoided striking the doctor!

And.. if he hadn't been there the doctor would also not have suffered. In part he felt responsible and though once this would not have phased him at all, it did now. Enough that he found himself praying that the doctor would soon join them on deck.

This somewhat surprised him of course and he blinked, shook his head, feeling his ribbon slipping further down his hair. Great, he just hoped it would not fall before the inspections, the readings and mass were over. How prim n' straight standing the marines looked. Like little dolls, one beside the other, inhuman.

He shifted from his left foot to his right already bored with the waiting.