4 June; Salty

Maybe the greenjacket had a point. McIntyre looked a bit closer at his hand and noted that there were a couple little bits of skin starting to bubble.

"Shame there's no salt water near to hand," he commented, pulling off his stock and unfolding the black linen that it was wrapped in. Dampening the linen with his canteen was a bit of a trick with only one hand, until he gave up and used his burnt hand to hold the cloth.

"Got a sawbones for a da, sir?"

"Unfortunately for you, no," Vickery said, vaguely amused that anyone could think he had a physician for a father. The Viscount Saltash would be equally amused... the Viscountess would definitely not be amused at all.

"Pass me that canteen." His tone allowed no argument, and nor did his outstretched hand.

"Aye aye, sir." The canteen was surrendered at once. He knew enough never to argue with an officer who used that sort of tone.

"Hold your hand out," he continued, uncorking the canteen. "Not too near the fire, either."

McIntyre did as he was bidden, privately amused and embarrassed by the scene. Next time, he was resolved to be more mindful of where he stuck his hands.

"Still figurin' this stewardin' thing out, so I am," he observed lightly.

"Fair enough," Vickery replied. "There are some things where it's easier to have help, though. And this is one of those times." He carefully poured water over the burn - a nice shiny red one, it was too. "I do hope that isn't too painful," he added. Cotton was still figuring out the whole soldier-servant thing, too, of course.

"How long have you been Mister Cobb's batman?" he asked, curious.

True enough, again. Even if McIntyre was not so fond of permitting an officer to tend such a minor injury.

"Since we left Lisbon, or a bit before," was the answer. "Last fellow had the fever or somethin'."

"There. I am afraid you will have to fill your canteen up again, but that should help, somewhat." He re-corked the canteen and laid it aside; the older man's discomfiture was painfully obvious. "And next time, use your forage hat or something rather than bare skin, and you won't have this problem."

It was little enough help that he had been able to give, anyway. He just hoped that the burn wasn't bad - and that the prompt attention had helped.

"Aye aye, sir."

McIntyre used the long folded strip of black linen to wrap up his hand, and managed somehow to knot the ends together with only his left hand. It would help him keep from doing the appendage further injury.

"Thank you, sir."

He noted that the dog was watching the scene with what looked suspiciously like a grin on its muzzle. Stupid mutt.

That was the second time in the past few minutes that McIntyre had responded 'Aye, aye, sir,' rather than 'Yes, sir,' and Vickery was curious.

"How long were you a Marine for?" he asked, reseating himself and reaching for his tea. His side gave a painful twinge; obviously getting up at the speed he had hadn't done his wound any favours. "And you will have to tell me how the 'Aye, aye' thing works. I recall hearing it spoken aboard, on the voyage out, but I do not believe I know when it is used because I also heard sailors saying 'Yes, sir.'"

"Ten years, sir," McIntyre replied, resuming the interrupted work of cooking the rabbit pieces. He'd decided it was better to fry them up and stow them away for later, rather than try smoking them. " 'Aye aye' is the answer for when an officer gives an order or direction," he explained. "S'the way of acknowledgin' whatever it is an' that it'll get done directly."

"Ah, I see." That made sense, now that he came to think about it. He leaned forward, ostensibly to pet the dog, but really to ease the pain of his own wound somewhat. "I suppose I am not the only Army officer to be confused by that."

A mildly relieved grin came onto his face. "You ain't, sir. Me own officers don't like hearin' me t'all, 'cause of that. Say it ain't fittin'." He shrugged and tipped the last of the water from his canteen into the pan, in which the pieces of rabbit were merrily sizzling. It occurred to him that, if he wasn't careful, he could too used to being able to prepare hot meals. Not the best thing when afield.

"Well, you must allow that they have not your years of experience in such a distinguished Corps as His Majesty's Royal Marines," Vickery pointed out, surreptitiously pressing his free arm to his side. He was not going to criticise the man's superiors for being stuck in their ways aloud, but that did not stop him thinking it.

His grin broadened. No, many of his officers certainly did not. "Maybe not, sir, but that's the way of it. Still. I'd wager some of 'em would do well with a bit of time spent at sea."

Things were no doubt different now, of course. The granting of the Royal warrant would have brought plenty of changes beyond the obvious. All the same, it was McIntyre's firm belief that a Marine officer would have the better of an army officer any day.

Of course, McIntyre was no longer a Marine, and ought to fall in with the wishes of his current superiors, but Vickery allowed that ten years of habit could not be broken overnight. And, really, he found it rather refreshing. Were McIntyre one of his men, he did not think that he would try to break the man of it. A pattern of speech was merely that, and it showed McIntyre as an individual. Doubtless, of course, that was why his officer did not like it.

"That is as maybe," he replied. The man was skirting dangerously close to criticising his officers to Vickery, and that simply would not do.

"How is your hand?" he asked, by way of changing the subject. "If it gives you any problems, I should recommend you seek out a sawbones."

He flexed his fingers and, in lieu of letting a grimace show, shrugged. "It'll hold, sir. Just so long's I keep it clear of anythin' that's boilin' hot."

"You do that," the officer said. He hoped that it wouldn't prevent the man from being able to go through the firing and loading procedure.

He gingerly relaxed his arm a little from where it was pressing against his side. He seemed to be all right, but it had been a painful reminder not to move too sharply.

With a slight grin, McIntyre replied, "Aye aye, sir."

Vickery gingerly relaxed the arm pressed to his side, hoping that he hadn't torn out any stitches or done anything else equally stupid.

"Where is the furthest you saw service?" he asked, trying to find something else to talk about now that McIntyre's hand seemed to be sorted.

"Jamaica, sir," was McIntyre's reply. "Was ashore in Kingston a couple months. No place for a Marine, that!"

"Ah. Not a healthy place, by all accounts, the West Indies." His father had interests out there, but it wouldn't be exactly politic to mention that. "I understand it is somewhat healthier aboard ship, though."

It wasn't at that, really. "The fever's a nasty thing. Travels by magic, it does," McIntyre admitted. "A ship's only so healthy as stores ashore'll let it be." He shrugged. "Some fellows have it luckier than others. I was never knocked down by it meself."

"Then you are indeed fortunate," Vickery said. "I understand there is a theory that fever is spread by bad smells, or bad air - I believe that the Italians call it mal aria."

McIntyre snorted. "There's plenty of that out there. Half a wonder the squadrons don't end up rottin' at anchor 'cause of the yellow jack."