On Sentry Duty

Billy replied with a grin of his own. "Thankee, mate. Thompson. You're a good'un." He knelt down next to his friend. "Cob! Brought ye sommat to drink. And a biscuit!" Grog and food were always comforting; that much Billy knew quite well. "Y'all right, mate? I talked to the captain but - I don't know as it did much good." He smiled apologetically.

Good old Billy Barrow. Chase sat up with a grin as his mate offered the tankard and biscuit. "Don't matter, Billy-boy. Long's the lads know what sorta lad Mister De Guarde is. Cheers," he added, toasting the other two with his tankard. "Better'n a proper feast, this."

Billy chuckled at that. "Well you're a proper lesson to us all, mate. And the captain knows too now. I think the young lad will be more careful - at least, I hope so. Will you be all right, mate? I never been flogged meself, but I seen Bill Griffiths a while ago, and he did all right."

Oh, they'd know all right. Chase was one of the men who was least likely to get a striped shirt at the gangway - in the usual way. And he had mates looking out for him, and all. Yes; he'd be all right. Thompson kept a wary eye out for anyone approaching who might cause trouble. After all, there was no need for his mate to join him at the grating.

Billy saw the sentry's nervous look. "I'll be gone in a minute, mate, thanks so much. Just let him finish his drink."

"S'alright, mate," he said. There hadn't been any warning; it couldn't be anything stronger than water from the scuttlebutt, though Thompson hoped Chase's mate had been able to slip him a bit of grog - or even a bit of neat rum. It'd help; even if they had no reason not to like you, the bosun's mates weren't known for slacking when flogging a body.

Chase snorted and tossed back the last of the grog. "Course I'll be arright, a dozen strokes ain't nuffin'. I'd be worried more 'bout Willie Taylor. Gun cap'n or not, that 'un'll do summat stoopit an' be next to fin' out how strong Mister Colburn's arm is wit' the cat."

He tossed the empty tankard back to Billy. Thompson was edgy with the other seaman there but his unease was understandable. "Off wit' ya, then. We'll see if y'can beat me inta the tops after the sawbones gets done wit' me. Doubt it!" He laughed and broke the biscuit on the worn wooden planking of the deck. "Here, Thompson, quit lookin' like a hen so."

Billy grinned again. "Right you are. Thankee Thompson. Good luck, Cob." And with that, he slipped away into the gloom

"You can laugh; you don't have to worry y'rself about fallin' foul of Cross-eyed Johnson," the Marine grumbled good-naturedly. "He's 'ad a go at me once today already, I don't need him givin' me more grief."

"Only once? He must be gettin' soft!" Chase grinned, mostly to himself, and munched on a bit of the biscuit. The other half of the biscuit he held out to Thompson. "I ain't gonna tell him there's odd doin's down here if ya doesn't. On Mister De Guarde's honour," he added with a low chuckle.

"Cheers," Thompson said, accepting the biscuit held out to him. "Oh, I ain't a-goin' to be saying anythin' to him, believe you me. An' I don't reckon Miste Da Guarde knows the meanin' of honour."

The bell sounded again from for'ard. "Waitin's nearly over," he said, and muched a biy of the biscuit he was holding.

Even though he had been wanting to go out on deck, Bolitho found himself still sitting in his cabin, long after Barrow had left. He was mulling over everything the sailor had told him, and everything he had already observed about De Guarde. The midshipman was clearly a tyrant in training who wanted to assert his control over the sailors as quick as possible. Obviously the boy had served under a particularly stern captain who had taught him that officers must make the crew live in fear of them. Bolitho despised those types of captains. He demanded order, but he would never want his crew to fear him. Respect him and follow him, but never fear him. He was deeply disappointed that De Guarde already had his mind set on the attitude of fear, for it now would be difficult to break him of it.

He heard the continual striking of the bells, and he heaved a sigh as he thought of the fate that awaited Chase at four bells. Chase was a good sailor. Bolitho did not want to unjustly flog him, but for the sake of his own authority, he had to carry out the punishment. Running a hand through his hair, Bolitho closed his eyes and tried to calm his thoughts. But there was one thought that he could not keep from running through his mind: this was definitely not what he would have wanted to happen on this voyage.

The middie appeared on deck. Clear conscious that at the next bell the sentence would begin. Hands crossed on his back he reminded a bit of a young emperor or a miniature general observing his troops. He made full certain that he did not cross paths with Leat, a fear of the man planting it's seed in his consciousness. Surely if called it would've been another matter, but he'd not tempt the lion if he could help it.

His eyes dropped to the deck for a moment. There was a strange sensation that he had been observed beyond the common manner of a crowded ship. He paused and turned, but not a single gaze was turned in his way. And one that for a moment averted to him quickly made busy with what they were doing.

"...Fine as it should be."He murmured subtly. Another Bell should be soon enough. He strained his ears as if afraid that he would miss it.

The last of the biscuit was gone and so was some of his cheer. He'd heard the bell's pealing too. "Aye," he said and looked down at the cold black of the shackles around his ankles. Mister De Guarde had no honour, Cross Johnson was as sour as ever, and it was only one bell 'til defaulters. Watts would be back soon to collect him, after piping "Hands aft to witness punishment". At least the waiting was nearly over.

"You'll be fine, a dozen ain't anythin' to worry about."

Wonderful; talking about it wasn't going to get the man's mind off it. Even if that were possible, of course.

"An' it's early enough in the day for the Corporal to chew me out again, f'r summat else."

"Oh aye, I knows it." A dozen really was nothing. He'd seen a man get almost a hundred once, for fighting with a Marine in the maintop. He knew Captain Bolitho was not a harsh captain as that, too.

"Better not say that too loud, else he'll show up behind ya!"

He would, as well. He seemed to show up if you so much as breathed his name, alone in the maintop. He had damn good hearing and a sharp, sour temper, which was not a combination Thompson liked.

"You been flogged afore, then?" he asked, curiously.

"Twice," Chase replied, his memory drifting back. "First time I were just an ordinary, a low sorta lad an' all. Lost the cap'n's hat over the side an' got a dozen an' a harf for it. Second, I were an able an' got a dozen for knockin' a bos'un's mate down the companion ladder in a bit of a storm."

At least those times, he'd earned the sentence.

"Whaddabout y'self? Been under the lash ever?"

"Once. Was me birthday - or near enough - an' I was drunk, and cheeked an officer. Got a dozen for that an' was told I was lucky it weren't two." And it had hurt, but that was the point, wasn't it? Make it hurt and they wouldn't do it again.

Cheeked an officer, had he? Chase shook his head. Maybe Marines weren't so high and mighty after all. "Well I got that one done too, now." A fierce grin came onto his face as he got an idea. "Ain't one of yer lads a fiddler or summat? There oughta be some skylarkin' done after I gets back on deck tonight. Jus' t'prove that no lad'll be cowed by that young gennelman."

"We got a fifer," Thompson said. "The fiddler's one of your lot. Bit of skylarkin'll be good. 'Specially with a young gentleman like that aboard the barky."

It had been some time since they'd had any proper skylarking on deck, in Thompson's opinion. And a bit of fun never hurt anyone, after all.

"Yer drummer, then." Chase was already lining things up in his mind. "Be a nice'n lively evenin', sure. Fife, drum, an' fiddle. An' that empty-headed Irishman Donahue to jig fer us."

There were heavy footfalls over the deck behind Thompson and Chase fell silent. It was Colburn the boatswain's mate, not Watts himself. Keys jangled dully in Colburn's hand. Must be almost time.

"Hush you," the boatswain's mate said, unnecessarily, as he unlocked the shackles. "Gonna get you stood on deck 'fore the lads're piped aft. Quicker this's done the better."

It almost seemed that Colburn was more uncomfortable with the idea of the flogging than Chase was.

After talking briefly with the army gentlemen Leat had returned below to dig out his best uniform. His hair had been newly tied into a queue that morning and was still in very good order, so all he had to do was get changed and maybe buff up a few buttons. His best hat (he owned two) needed a brush, but the rest was still in fairly good nick.

"Just a minute, Mister Colburn," Thompson said. "Here, mate, give your ankles a proper rub. They'll drive you mad, else."

He loosened his bayonet in its sheath, ready for when he should have to stand behind Chase on deck as his sentry. Not that Chase seemed likely to bolt, of course.

It did feel a bit better to massage some life back into his ankles and feet. He couldn't waste too much on it though. Colburn was impatient to be moving along and Chase knew from experience how quickly the man resorted to his starter.

Thompson was fiddling with his bayonet, which was more nerve-wracking than the prospect of having his back flayed open a bit. Marines and their sharp pointy objects. Chase said nothing as he followed Colburn toward the ladder and then up. At least there was a breeze here on the weather deck. The grating had already been rigged up, just in front of the larboard poop deck stairs. Chase let his gaze drift skyward, at the filled-out sails and miles of rigging, the yards and crosstrees. How soon he made it up there after having his back tended to would depend on how quick the sawbones was. But it wouldn't be long at all if he had anything to say about it.

The shrilling of pipes pierced the air. Chase put the swaying topmasts from his mind and breathed out. In only a few moments the entire Company would be turned out on the weather deck, with the officers and Marines lined up neatly at the poop deck rail. And the green baize bag was already there, next to the grating.