2nd June: Off-watch in the Wardroom

"Mr. George, our previous third lieutenant," Leat answered.

Meanwhile Emily looked considerinly at Deverel's hand, sniffing his fingers cautiously before she permitted him to scratch her head. Leat imagined he must reek of spirits even more to her acute nose than to theirs.

Good, Cartwright thought with quiet relief. He was rid of that unwanted wine.

"I would think Miss Emily is not one to be told where she may or may not go," he observed mildly.

"Most cats aren't," Deverel agreed, taking a swig of wine. "Like servants. That boy must have left my door open and the cat got in. Unless she has secret passages somewhere. And I'm sure he's been going through my desk when it's not locked. Who do you fellows have as servants? Any chance of my getting someone else?"

Leat did not have a servant, had never insisted on one, but relied solely on Markham seeing to his clothes now and again. Deverel, though, was of the class that expected to be waited on hand and foot, no matter how limited or inexperienced the manpower.

"This crew is still quite raw, Mr. Deverel," he pointed out, taking another sip of his brandy. "But if you are dissatisfied with your present servant I suppose you could engage one of the powder monkeys."

He had half meant it as a jest, but then a wicked thought occured to Leat. He hid his smile, inclining his head to one side in a thoughtful expression.

"I think either Smith or Button may suit. They seem to have plenty spare time for skylarking, though I believe are hard dilligent workers when put to a task..."

"Or one of the drummers," Cartwright offered, thinking of the Shepherd twins. Maybe some servanting work would curtail their antics. Or maybe not.

Bush suddenly felt very sorry for the young lads whose names were now being mentioned. How I pity those poor boys, he thought as he seated himself at the table. He did not envy anyone who would be given the dubious task of waiting on Deverel.

Leat turned to Cartwright as he mentioned the Shepherd twins, his eyebrows raised in an expression which asked "Why? What have they done?" of the Marine lieutenant. Edward was only suggesting Button and Smith for reasons of petty punishment, and he somehow suspected from what he knew of Cartwright that their webfooted friend might be doing the same with the Shepherds.

He saw Mister Leat's glance and smiled slightly. "Or perhaps putting those two in such a position of privilege - and opportunity - may not be the wisest idea."

Although Deverel had not been on watch on deck with Leat, he had been given the duties of supervising the carpenter in making some repairs to the hold, and he was rather exhausted. "I don't care, just so long as they keep rats off of my shoes," he grumbled. However, the prospect of soon falling asleep in his hammock and the aid of a drink was returning him to a more mellow frame of mind. "You just bring your treats to Mister Leat now," he told the cat, rubbing her ear between his rat-scented fingers. "He loves them. Probably slips them in his stew. There's a good little moggy. She's a good little moggy, Ned, what's she called." Damn, he had forgotten his sleeping draught. He had taken it upon entering his room, knowing it would be difficult to sleep this time of day but needing it since he had been up since his watch last night and would need to be up again soon. A draught for a quick deep sleep. He had obtained it from the surgeon on his way here, ostensibily to help with the pain in his injured arm that disturbed his sleep. Now the wine was speeding up its progress.

"Going to go to sleep soon," he announced. "Took a draught from surgeon, for my arm and my sleep. Trouble sleeping with the changes and all, and the soreness the way I lie." He hiccupped briefly. Surely the men would not mind. They would know that a man can not get falling-down drunk on one glass of wine. "First glass all day, I assure you" he insisted, nodding his loose head. "Just hope that boy made my bed to rights."

His limbs moved like those of a wooden puppet on strings, jerkily lifting as he turned to look back at his cabin. "It looks all right. Forgot these draughts make me peckish. Markham!!! Some food, man. Some little food. Biscuits." His yell tempered to a calm tone as a plate of biscuits arrived on the table. He stared at them sleepily. "Biscuits."


[oc - took a sleeping pill, first time in ages. yumm]

"Oh of course that was your first glass," Bush said, more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Of all the ships in the fleet, why in heaven's name had they been burdened with Deverel yet again? "Perhaps you should retire, Mr. Deverel. We would not wish for you to injure yourself by passing out here at the table."

He remembered all too vividly what had happened the last time Deverel had gotten himself the worse for drink, and he did not want that scene repeating itself in the wardroom.

"Need to eat a little something first, old boy. Helps. Join me." He gave Bush a rather sweet and sleepy smile, holding a glass out to him. At times, Deverel could encompass all the most generous and affectionate human emotions. But usually just when he was drunk, and not always then. "It's only the draught, only the draught from the sawbones that does it. You'll be right as houses. It's my arm, keeps bleeding it. Sleepy. Been working in the hold with the carpenter since last night. He has a good mate, bright lad. What's my next watch? Wake me if I don't. The boy won't, nor Docker. Is it Docker? I'll be fine by then, just wake me." His speech was interrupted by heavy hiccups, and then his head slid onto the table, a peaceful look on his face and fresh blood spreading on his white sleeve.

Well. Cartwright held back a bemused smile as Deverel carried on. The man truly was a character.

"Were it not for his arm," he ventured, "I should be happy to let him sleep."

"What do you suppose we do with him?" Leat asked. He did not fancy the idea fo having to undress Deverel and dump him in his cot; but then again they could not leave him on the table. It conveyed the wrong image altogether of the Terpsy's officers. He sighed, setting aside his brandy. "Shall we carry him into his cabin?"

"Perhaps." Cartwright eyed the unconscious Deverel with distaste. There wasn't much else they could do with him. Leaving him here at the table was certainly not an option. "Markham. Bear a hand here."

"No," Deverel murmured as Markham gently hoisted him to his feet. "It's only the sawbones. Only gave me for my arm and there's lads in the hold, check on them. In the fore sheathing of a coffer dam. I mean the dam. I mean the tar room. Don't forget." He suddenly grabbed at Markham's jacket and stared into the man's eyes. "You won't forget?"

"I do not think it's too much effort for Markham to pass a meassage on to Mr. Tadcock to keep an eye on your fellows in the hold," said Leat reassuringly, nodding at Markham. "But sawbones or no, I do think you need your cot."

"No. Yes. No. He did say. I'm very tired." He recognized the course on which Markham was steering him, and he cooperated as best he could, finally propelling himself into his cot. "I'll just sleep a while. Until I wake." And he shut his eyes and immediately fell into a doze.

Leat sighed and shook his head, returning to his seat as Markham pulled off Deverel's boots and shut the cabin door.

"He should sleep soundly for a few hours," he commentedly blithely.

"We can only hope," Bush remarked.

Finally. "Blessed be the peace," Cartwright observed. "Our sins, whatever they are, must be grave indeed, for us to be graced with his presence again."

If the sins in question were those committed that night ashore then they certainly were great, Leat thought. He took another sip from his glass.

"It may be just as hard on him as it is on us. Perhaps given time he may settle," Leat commented, though even he could tell that he did not sound convinced.

"Perhaps indeed," Cartwright mused thoughtfully, though he was not convinced a sot like Deverel could ever 'settle' into a wardroom. At least not this one. "Dare I ask, gentlemen, if there is any interest in a game of cards?"

Leat looked up from tickling Emily under the chin.

"Possibly. What's your game?"