3 June; Promotions

The sealed letter had been delivered aboard before Terpsichore had sailed, but Cartwright had not dared open it until now. He wasn't sure of its contents and was therefore a trifle afraid of what he might learn.

Upon finally breaking the wax seal and reading the neatly-written lines, however, he found himself laughing at his own stupidity. Promotion orders. For him. Signed by Admiral Croker himself. Well damn. 'In recognition of his singular efforts' during the attack on the French fort. Somebody had probably seen him running around like an idiot on the ramparts in a French coat.

Captain. He read the letter three more times before setting it carefully aside. It was pathetic that he hadn't dared to read it before now, but it hardly mattered. Cartwright grinned to himself. It was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. His father would be surprised. And to think he'd said the Marines were no sort of a career!

The news put him in an unusually cheerful mood. If he had been advanced, it was only fair that he should pass the good fortune down the line. Cartwright fetched the muster book from his sea-chest. There was a vacancy in the detachment for a corporal, had been since before he'd taken command. Two were allowed for but there was only one. Johnson. Who would best fit the rank?

Of the men who'd been part of the attack on the fort, he could think of three who had performed exceptionally well. They had all performed very well, to be sure, but there were three names that came immediately to mind. Branning, Thompson, and Oxley. But there was little sense in giving Branning stripes. The man didn't have the capacity of thought for it. Oxley was much too young. That left Thompson.

Cartwright chuckled to himself as he skimmed over the muster book. To all accounts, that Marine's service had been fine indeed. Steady-tempered, attentive to his duty, with sufficient years of service behind him. And seemingly able to hold his own in situations without higher authority to back him.

"Foley!" The newly-minted captain called. His steward appeared a moment later. "Send for Private Thompson."

The Irishman nodded and disappeared again. Later, Cartwright would have him sew on his spare epaulette. Later. After this business was sorted. He grinned again. Who'd have thought it!

Thompson had been minding his own business, brushing his jacket while he had time before going on sentry. Foley's call made him start. Why on earth the Lieutenant should want him, he couldn't imagine. Unless, perhaps, it was something to do with de Guarde and the offer Mister Cartwright had made him? No; that was between the two of them and didn't need Thompson's input at all.

There was only one way to find out. He dropped the brush and pulled the jacket on, reaching for his hat. He ran a hand over his hair before putting the hat on, hoping that the few spider's legs he could feel weren't as bad as he feared. There was no time to sort them out now.

He headed aft to the wardroom, pausing by McEwen. "Sent for," he said and McEwen looked at him curiously. He merely replied with a shrug before pushing the door open and knocking on Mister Cartwright's cabin door.

"Thompson, sir. Sent for," he said, letting the officer know who it was.

That was prompt. Good. "Enter," Cartwright replied, turning his chair so he could see the door. This would be interesting.

Thompson took a breath, steeling himself for whatever might be about to happen, and pushed the door open, trying to decide whether he ought to attempt a salute in such a tiny space, or take his hat off.

He ended up twisting sideways a little and fumbling at a salute, before coming to attention. "Sent for, sir," he repeated, wondering what in the world this could possibly be about.

"Good lad," he said. "At ease. Have a seat even, if you wish." He pulled the lid of his sea-chest down, providing a makeshift chair if Thompson so desired.

A seat? He couldn't help frowning a little at the officer, even as he pulled his hat off - and those spiders' legs were probably even worse than he'd thought - and sat on the offered sea-chest, though he was still almost bolt-upright, not having the first idea what to expect.

It didn't look like some sort of chewing-out, though, thankfully.

The Marine was probably as comfortable as he'd let himself be, Cartwright thought. Right.

"How long have you been in the Corps, Thompson?"

He perched his hat on his knee - no sense dropping it on the floor, after all. The question made him blink - he certainly hadn't been expecting that. "Since the year o' the Nore Mut'ny, sir - twelve year, I think it is."

What did that have to do with anything?

It was all Cartwright could do to keep a straight face.

"And to all accounts a fine twelve years of service, at that," he said. "I don't suppose you have ever considered advancement?"

Advancement? He was talking about promotion?

"No, sir," he said carefully, wondering if the question meant what he thought it did. "I, um, I can't read, sir."

As though that was the only thing officers were bothered about. Besides, he could read and write his name now, and wasn't that reading, of a sort?

No. He hadn't expected otherwise. In fact, he might even have reconsidered this had Thompson answered in the affirmative.

"I see. Well." Best to cut to the chase now, really. "I'm certain you're aware that, as a frigate, Terpsichore is allowed to carry two corporals as part of her Royal Marine detachment. At present, we have but one. I am curious if you would be amenable to filling the vacancy."

"Me, sir?"

He hadn't expected that at all, and felt completely taken aback.

"I... Ah... I... Are you sure, sir?"

A corporal? The officer must be playing some sort of joke.

Cartwright nodded. "It is entirely voluntary, of course. No good ever comes of forcing rank upon a man."

His thoughts were in a whirl, but he managed to nod.

"If... If you'm sure, sir."

Which was a stupid thing to say. Of course the officer was sure, or he wouldn't be sitting here right now. And he was rather glad he was sitting, the suggestion had been so surprising.

"Only if you are," Cartwright told him. "I should not like to put a Marine forward for promotion against his wishes."

He took a breath, willing his racing thoughts to calm down so he could think about it.

It would be extra responsibility, of course. But really, he didn't think that would be beyond him. And he'd end up working pretty closely with Corporal Johnson... although they'd likely end up in opposite watches, or something. And it wasn't as though he had no dealings with the Corporal now, after all. He got on with the others, apart from Shriver - but then, he didn't think anybody got on with Shriver.

And the officer seemed to think he could do it, even though he couldn't read. And he trusted Mister Cartwright's opinion.

"I think.... I think, if you'm sure I can do it, sir, that I'll take it," he said eventually, feeling the weight of the officer's gaze on him, and hoping, suddenly, that it wasn't a joke.

Cartwright nodded again, managing to keep the smile off his face. "Good lad. I'm sure you'll do fine. Sergeant Quinn would no doubt be willing to help you out, should you not be sure of something." He stood up and briefly debated the wisdom of offering something to make chevrons from. Probably better not to. Instead, he offered his hand.

"Congratulations then, Corporal."

It took him a moment to respond, the address was so strange and unfamiliar. He scrambled to his feet, feeling a little uncertain. "Th... thank you, sir," he managed eventually, and shook the offered hand.

"To your duties." He would have to speak to Sergeant Quinn shortly, to let him know of the change. Hopefully that wouldn't take long. He had uniform alterations of his own to make, after all!

"Aye, aye, sir," he managed and somehow managed a salute that was even more of a fumble than the earlier one. He opened the door and left, still feeling dazed.

And just what were his duties now? He obviously wouldn't be standing sentry any more... And added to that, he needed to make a set of stripes. He headed back to his mess-table, wondering somehow if he'd imagined it all.

Once Thompson was gone, the cabin door clicking shut behind him, Cartwright finally let himself grin. It was a day for unexpected things, wasn't it?

"Foley!" The challenge now was one of keeping from laughing aloud. "I have need of your sewing wizardry. That spare epaulette needs moving, if wouldn't mind. From my old jacket to this one."

His steward stared at him a moment, then grinned broadly. "Aye aye, sir. Should I fetch Sarn't Quinn too?"

"Oh yes. Directly." Of course Foley would have heard every word. He wouldn't have gone far from the cabin after calling for Thompson.

Quinn noticed Thompson leaving the wardroom, a stunned look on his face, and grinned, recognising the look. So, it was like that, was it? Well, if anyone deserved it, Thompson did - if his suspicions were correct.

He decided that, rather do what he'd been about to do, he'd head for his own mess, which he shared with some of the petty officers, so he could be easily found if necessary.

"Sarn't?" Foley drifted toward the senior Marine, a smirk playing faintly about his lips. " 'Tenant's wantin' to see you aft."

"Thank you, Foley," he said, changing direction to head towards the wardroom. Thompson looked just as stunned as ever, though he'd sat down on his sea-chest now, and was holding a rag. He couldn't seem to remember what he ought to be doing with it though, and Quinn shook his head, giving McEwen a nod as he passed.

"Sir?" he said, giving Mr Cartwright's cabin door a rap.

Quinn's arrival was just as prompt as Thompson's had been. Good. Cartwright schooled his features back into impassivity and called out, "Enter."