2nd July; Serving a Sentry

Mister Rutland was welcome to him, and Thompson handed custody of the man over. It was as he stepped back that he noticed the slight gleam of something lying on the deck half-hidden by the wheels of Number Six's truck. Thompson bent to see what it was.

Ah. That looked suspiciously like the bell-rope. He straightened up with it in his hand.

"I might need words with him later, Mister Rutland," he said, deciding that he needed to speak to his Marine first.

The boatswain's mate shrugged but said only, "Shift, Pascoe. I needs a word wi' you now." Then he looked round at the crowd of onlookers. "Rest of you, clear off! This ain't a bleedin' circus!"

Thompson felt in his pocket for the key to the irons, which he was carrying as the duty NCO. "Don't s'pose you'll be needin' this?" he said, holding it out, fully expecting a negative answer. Rutland, like himself, was likely to want to deal with this unofficially if at all possible.

Keys for the irons. Rutland eyed them disdainfully. "Fond of lockin' lads up, are you?"

He turned away, the collar of Pascoe's shirt held tight in his fist. His other hand, holding the lantern, was still raised nearly at head-height. Without a further word, he hauled his prisoner toward the forrard ladder and headed down to the sailors' messdeck.

Thompson shook his head, slipping the keys back into his pocket. "No more'n anyone else," he said, and made his own way back up to the weather-deck. He had a bell to sort out and a sentry to question.

The heaviness in his eyelids was coming back, but McIntyre was fighting it. He was not so undisciplined as to drift off again after something had gone wrong at his post. His chosen remedy for the silent nag of sleepiness was to tilt his head forward ever so slightly, so the hard leather of his neckstock bit into his throat. It was a crude method but it worked.

Just as well, really. Here came Corporal Thompson. Again. McIntyre straightened up, suppressing a wince at the twinge of pain in his neck. "All's well, Corporal," he said tonelessly, staring aft over the corporal's shoulder.

It was now, of course. Thompson nodded. "Shift over a step, lad," he said, and pulled his hand out of his pocket, showing the bell-rope, making sure that McIntyre was the only one who could see it. "Anythin' you want to tell me?" he asked quietly, keeping his tone conversational rather than being accusatory.

He reached to fasten the cord back to the bell's clapper, working as quickly as he could so as not to arouse suspicion from anyone else.

Hell and death. He had the bellrope. Where the devil... McIntyre's gaze flicked down to the length of white hemp, a frown touching his brow. If the corporal had it, he knew it'd been missing and probably knew who'd nicked it. And also that McIntyre had had one gotten over on him. He shifted over a step and looked aft again, successful at last in squashing his baffled expression.

Don't lie to a corporal. The words were uttered in his father's voice. A perfect warning, really. The old man would know best in that respect but McIntyre could not see how coming out with the truth now served any purpose. Except, of course, to make this whole situation worse.

"No, Corporal."

Damn. It had probably been easier to nick than Thompson was finding it to replace the thing, but he succeeded at last.

"You sure?" he said, raising an eyebrow. The other Marine was sticking to his story, and Thompson had not really thought he was likely to change it now. "It ain't goin' to happen again, is it." He made it a statement rather than a question, though his eyebrow remained lifted.

No, it bloody wasn't. Even if it meant McIntyre had to tie the damn thing to his wrist.

"No, Corporal. It ain't."

Blasted sneaks in this ship, the young Marine thought scathingly. If a lad could not even stand a watch at the bell without somebody in the company having a go at him... as far as first impressions went, this was a piss-poor one. Already he was wishing he was back in Dasher sloop, where things were normal and familiar.

"Good." Thompson gave his handiwork a quick, sharp tug to make sure it was secure, before stepping back. "Then I ain't goin' to say any more about it."

He was under no illusion that Rutland was going to give the sailor much more than a swift cuff round the ear for being so stupid as to get caught by a lobster, but that was down to Rutland.

If it happened again, he was going to haul Mcintyre over the coals for allowing it, and then give the Tar responsible a good kicking.

The corporal might not, but McIntyre certainly was. There was going to be a bit of a reckoning once he found out who'd made off with the bellrope. That much was certain. Teach this lot to have a go at him!

"Yes Corporal," he said and cringed at the slight clang as the bell shifted when Thompson tugged at the bellrope.

"Carry on."

And it felt really strange to be the one saying those words, instead of receiving them.

Thompson hoped that nothing else out of the ordinary was going to happen on his watch. This was quite enough to deal with for one night, after all. He took his lantern and headed down to the scuttlebutt. He really needed five minutes' peace, and a mouthful of water.

Shit. That interfering bullock was back. Why was he on the gundeck again? Crabtree froze, half-bent over, his fingers just curling around the marlinspike he'd dropped earlier.

Thompson ignored the seaman and made for the scuttlebutt, reaching for the dipper. Much more of this malarkey and he was likely to end up with a thumping headache.

He wet his mouth, sighing at the quality of the water - it tasted as though the leaguer this water was from had been aboard since Terpsy had commissioned. Bugger.

Amazingly, the bullock paid him no mind. It was an unexpected blessing and Crabtree was not about to let it pass without taking advantage. He straightened up, the marlinspike in hand, and turned about to retreat to the forrard ladder. He'd been deprived of his sport tonight but he reckoned he had the measure of things. A second attempt was likely to come later.

~

The great cabin sentry, Combes, couldn't stop himself frowning. Everything he'd chanced to see thus far smacked plainly of trouble but up to now he had kept silent about it. That seaman's reappearance, however, was the last nudge required for him to speak up.

"There's one've them thieves," he said in a low voice, keenly aware that he could not be too loud. If the captain was roused, there could be no hope of keeping this whole thing away from official notice. It was already a miracle he hadn't come investigating the noise from earlier.

"What?" Thompson dropped the dipper and spun round. "All right, then, you was part of that mess an' all." Now that his attention had been drawn to the man, he was sure it was the one who'd managed to get away from him earlier.

He knew even before the bullock turned sharply about that he was for. The only appropriate response was flight. Accordingly, Crabtree bolted for the ladder, intent on gaining the sanctuary of the messdeck. This time, he'd stay there!

Fuck's sake! Nobody could call Thompson 'slow' despite the head start the Tar had. the fact that the sailor had bolted spoke volumes as to his guilt - real or imagined - and Thompson wanted to know what the hell had been going on. Interfering with one of his sentries was the very least of it - interfering with the running of the ship, more like, despite the fact that McIntyre had covered it up, somehow.

And if McIntyre and these two Tar were somehow in cahoots, Thompson would eat his hat.

The sound of shoes over the deck was like thunder and it spurred Crabtree on. He had to get to the ladder. Once he reached it, he'd be safe in his escape. The only trouble was the bullock crashing across the gundeck after him.

A solution was in hand, however, he realised. The marlinspike. Crabtree twisted back even as he ran and flung the iron tool at his pursuer - and in taking his eyes off his path momentarily lost sight of where he was going.

The racket being made by the Marine was nothing in comparison to the crash Crabtree made as he fell headlong down the ladder.

At this rate, they were going to end up waking every single person aboard who wasn't awake already. Damn.

And damn. The sailor turned and flung something at Thompson, which caught him painfully in the side... and then promptly vanished down the ladder in a very painful-sounding crash, rattle and thump.

The Marine paused in a quick glance for whatever the sailor had chucked at him, but gave it up as a bad loss before heading down the ladder himself. He could always collect it later, after all.

The first man on the scene was the sleepy-eyed yeoman of the powder room/, whose hammock was slung nearby. He peered first at Crabtree's crumpled, unmoving form, then at the Marine who came clattering down the ladder.

"S'the glass droppin'?" He asked blearily.

"No," Thompson replied. "Go back t'sleep." The only thing dropping was this great lummox. He hopped over the Tar, who was crumpled at the bottom of the ladder, before bending to have a look at him. He seemed to be out cold, from what Thompson could tell in the dim light from the lanthorn he was still carrying (and how that hadn't been dropped or hit, he had no idea!).

Damn. Where was a helping hand when it was needed?

Oh. "Right," the petty officer said and turned to shuffle back to his hammock, muttering something about Marines trying to fly.

~

"Now what?" Mister Rutland demanded curtly, appearing from below.

Ah. Right on time. "This idiot threw summat at me an' took a header right down the ladder, top t'bottom," Thompson said, setting the lantern down in order to have both hands free so he could check the damage the idiot sailor had sustained in his fall. His own injury - and it was likely only a bad bruise - was forgotten in the face of this lubber's mis-step.