A beer and a chat in the Crown

"The one we had before this'n was tryin' to drown hisself in brandy," Thompson said, a slightly scornful edge to his voice. "This'n's much better. Don't seem to stand for no nonsense, anyhow."

McIntyre thought of his last officer and shrugged. "Some of 'em just ain't worth their commissions. And it's them what need carryin' most," he reasoned. " 'Specially when they don't know their arse from their sash."

The officer in his last ship had been like that. That had been only half a nightmare. Especially considering the lieutenant was a hard-fisted bastard. He shook his head. " 'Tenant Dawson came from the army an' tried runnin' things like we was a proper regiment. Didn't work so well. I don't think he ever did get to understand the sea-goin' life."

Thompson rolled his eyes. "Army. They ain't got any idea at all. The Corps' much better than the Army'll ever be." Which wasn't to say that there weren't any good officers in the Army, but he had yet to meet a soldier that he had any real respect for - they all went green at the thought of going to sea. As as for ever going aloft...!

Wasn't that the truth.

"Aye. Dunno what he was ever thinkin', tryin' to make a go of it as a Marine. I dunno what happened to him though, after he got moved off the ship. Hopefully he went back to the army, since he talked about it so much." McIntyre shrugged. It hardly mattered, in the long run.

The only army officer he'd met and felt any respect for had been that lieutenant in South Carolina. The one whose company had turned the little band of Marines back with such admirable restraint. Croft. That was his name. Poor bugger.

"Only army sod I ever got to like at all was the enemy," he commented, shaking his head ruefully.

"Ain't that allus the way," Thompson said. A careful look at the other man's uniform, which was of a previous age, made him ask, "S'pose he was a Yankee, that army sod?"

He recognised the style of uniform from the Marines he'd seen near his home when he was very young, and they'd been full of stories about the war they'd fought in the Americas.

McIntyre nodded. "One of their infantry lads. A proper line regiment. Showed us off the field once, even."

It had almost been twice, no thanks to their own army support. He sipped his beer and chose, for the moment, to leave that part out. Instead, he added, "Felt bad for the fellow, so I did. He'd have rather been in red."

"Least with us, we'm fightin' the French, not folks who'd rather be English," Thompson said. Not an easy war at all, that one. "They must've bin good if they got Marines off the field."

He almost asked if the other Marine had ever been to Chatham, but thought better of it.

"Or both," McIntyre amended, slightly bitterly. If it wasn't bad enough having one enemy, the French had to come flocking in to make life even more difficult. Even though they were a greater danger at sea, with their Admiral De Grasse and all.

"Oh aye. They'd have made a proper slaughter of us if Mister Croft'd not been commandin' 'em." It was a damned shame what had happened to him. It was impossible to know who had fired the shot which had cost the rebel lieutenant his leg, but if McIntyre had found out, he'd have boxed that man's ears until they rang.

Thompson nodded. "Nasty sort o' situation, that, then," he said. "Don't think I ever bin in that sort o' situation, that I know of anyway." He'd been in some sticky situations under both Captain Ramage and Captain Aubrey, but nothing that he could think was quite as sticky as getting chased off the field and only avoiding getting killed or captured because of the enemy officer.

He shrugged and took a breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all. "Hope you don't mind me askin'," he said, hoping the change of subject wouldn't be too abrupt, "but have you or any of your men ever been to Chatham?"

If that was so, the other corporal was a lucky bastard indeed. Then again, McIntyre reckoned he'd seen his share of nasty, unusual situations in the past months.

Chatham, though. It was with a measure of embarrassment that McIntyre had to think back to when he'd last seen England. "We sailed outta Chatham," he said, prodding the memory forward. "But that was... in Seventy-seven." Or something close to that. He'd been in the West Indies for a couple of years at least, anyway.

And 'seventy-seven didn't fit. It had been a stupid idea anyway, but worth a shot. The only year that fit, really, was the end of that war, but so many men had been discharged in Chatham that finding the right one, when he didn't know who he was looking for, was just never going to happen.

"Just wondered," he said, shrugging. "Bet you've seen a fair few places, though." But then, didn't anyone in the Corps, after all?

Precisely what had the other fellow being wondering about? That quick flicker of disappointment on the man's face was odd.

"Aye. I'll go a fair few more, 'fore I'm back home again," McIntyre said. "Been away to sea these past... three years now, I'd guess. 'Cept for now anyway. Whatever sort of place or time this is."

Three years... if he'd sailed away in 'Seventy-seven, it was only 'Eighty for the other man now. Two years too early. Or was it three? That was part of it, of course, when you didn't know exactly how old you were.

"I ain't sure exactly where this is, or when it is," he said. "Only this here ain't even where I'm from. It's the year 'Nine - Eighteen Oh Nine - where I am, when I ain't here."

It was what year? McIntyre blinked, a bewildered expression coming onto his face. "Hell's teeth," he muttered. If that was the truth, what had happened in those missing years?

And the other Marine was looking bewildered at the news. Thompson hastened to reassure him. "I mean, well, I'm here from the year 'Nine, an' you'm here from the year..." he did a quick bit of figuring, annoyed that he had to use his fingers for it. "'Eighty?" he asked, hoping he'd got it right. "But when we leave here, we both go back to where we come from, so we ain't lost nothin'."

He shrugged again. "No, I don't understand how it all works either. It just does, somehow."

That was a relief to hear, but McIntyre was still unnerved. If this fellow was from Eighteen-Oh-Nine, where were they now and what had happened to those missing years?

"Mad." He shook his head slowly and fortified himself with a swallow of beer. "So... what. 'Tween you an' me, there's almost thirty years missin'. Or close to."

Thompson nodded. "I know." He took another pull at the tankard of beer. "See, that's what made me ask earlier." He looked at the other Corporal and made up his mind. After all, he wasn't the only bastard to have enlisted in the Marines ever, and the other Marine had probably encountered his fair share, and if not, well.

"See, nearest I can work out is that I was born in... about 'eighty-three. Which is - I dunno if I oughta be tellin' you this, but hell. Your war finished in about 'eighty-two an' of course folks comin' home was paid off in about eighty-three." He shrugged. "An' I'm from Chatham, where some o' them ships was paid off. An' I dunno who me dad was... so I was tryin' to work out if you mebbe know him, is all."

Though, without a name or a description or anything of that sort, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack - without knowing what a needle looked like.

McIntyre fumbled mentally with this before understanding. He didn't know when Cornwall would return home, or if he would be aboard her, as in three years' time anything could happen. Anyway, this poor lad's query was not one he could answer. His father could be any one of hundreds put ashore after war's end.

"Wait," he said abruptly. "It's all over in Eighty-three?"

Thompson nodded. He wasn't sure how he would feel if someone told him abruptly that his own war would be over in three years' time, so the other man's confusion was perfectly understandable. "Aye. Reckon it's over in 'Eighty-two, or thereabouts."

Didn't that beat all. It would have been an understatement to say McIntyre was bewildered. This whole mess would be over within three years. How could that even be possible?

"We don't win it though, do we?" That much he could guess, even though as a lowly Marine corporal he wasn't thought intelligent enough to know what went on in the broader world. Then again, how could they hold out with France lending her considerable naval might to the colonists' cause?

Thompson couldn't help looking regretful. He shook his head ruefully. "'Fraid not, worse luck."

He couldn't help wondering how he would feel if someone told him he was fighting a war and he was on the losing side. Although, from the sounds of it, Corporal McIntyre knew that the British weren't going to win.

He might have guessed. Damn. Not that, all things considered, it was a very great loss. The whole affair had been nothing but a muddle, from what McIntyre understood of it.

"Might've figured," he mused with a shrug. "Cap'n likes us to think, see. 'Use your heads, lads', he says. He reckons a man what can think for himself is better'n some lad what's gotta be told what to do all the time. Least in a fightin' man. So he's always sharin' news of this or that with us. Sorta... well, I sorta reckoned it weren't much chance for us to win, really. With the French come in an' all."

He downed the last of his beer and shrugged again. "Anyways. If it's all done with in three years, or however long, maybe we'll be back home for a romp. Some of me lads'll need it, sure."