4th July, noon; Unofficial business

The lads were still making jokes about him. Two days on and they weren't yet tired of poking fun at his headlong fall down the forrard ladder. Running from a Marine, no less. Were it any other fellow, Crabtree would have been only too happy to make those same jokes himself. Except he was the one with the broken arm, having sustained the injury trying to escape from that brown-nosing bullock, and thus the jokes and comments rankled endlessly.

He slouched at his mess table, feeling doubly miserable. Being on the sick-list meant no grog. That would have been his one comfort in this wretched situation. Instead, he was obliged to make do with the foul water from the scuttlebutt. Officially, anyway. He'd managed to claim a landsman's tankard for himself, despite the man's protests, and the liquor had done its bit to lessen the throbbing ache in Crabtree's arm.

Eventually, having taken his fill of hearing the tale of his misfortune recounted yet again, Crabtree went topside. There would, he hoped, be some peace on the foc's'le.

"Crabtree," a rough voice growled, and the seaman instinctively scowled. Or maybe there wouldn't be.

"Corp'ral." He'd be damned if he saluted. Not that he had to anyway. Not for a bullock.

Johnson regarded him without expression. "You'n me needs to be havin' a chat. 'Cept you'll not be doin' any real talkin'." The Marine folded his arms across his chest. "Seems you got a likin' for takin' things what ain't yours. Thievin' is a sin in a ship an' you knows it."

"Aye?" Crabtree shrugged carefully.

"Nickin' the bellrope wasn't the smartest thing you ever done," Johnson went on. "Neither was goin' back to the gundeck after you was chased off it. But you're a rare idiot, seems, so I ain't all that surprised. Lucky for you the bellrope's back where it oughta be. If you tries anythin' like that with my sentries again, cully, you'll end it thinkin' a bust arm is nothin'."

"That so."

"Have a go at my sentries again an' see," said Johnson flatly. The Marine glanced aft and saw another redcoat approaching. "I figgered bein' on sick-list meant no grog issue, too," he added, and Crabree's face flushed.

Thompson was off-duty, and had come on deck for a smoke. The foc'sle was nearly empty at this time of day; the only other people there were Corporal Johnson and a sailor with his arm in a sling.

Ah. That'd be the bastard who'd tried to have McIntyre in trouble - at least, going by the look on Johnson's face and the Corporal's folded arms - and the scowl on the sailor's face.

He nodded companionably to Johnson before crossing to the rail, ostensibly ignoring the confrontation. It was nothing to him if the tar rightly got what-for for trying to drop McIntyre in the shit, after all.

Anyone who tried doing that to any of the Marines got what was coming to him, in Thompson's opinion.

What was this, a tag-team attack? Crabtree eyed the other corporal with wary distaste. Bloody Marines.

"I dunno what you're on about," the sailor grumbled, dropping his gaze to his bare feet.

"Course not. You don't know half of nothin'. Just so long's you keep what I said in mind, I don't much care what you does." Johnson snorted. "Now piss off."

That sounded good enough to him. Crabtree scarpered, only to happy to get back below.

"You're welcome," said Johnson, once Crabtree was gone.

"He's a bleedin' idiot," Thompson remarked lightly, pulling out his pipe and tobacco pouch. "If anyone goes interferin' with my sentries again, I'll give 'em a bloody good kickin', that's what."

He rolled his eyes. "Course you will."

If Thompson was really worth the stripes now on his sleeve, he'd have had a similar chat with Crabtree himself, without Johnson needing to do it for him.

Fine. Great. He'd screwed up, probably. He gave a shrug. Either that, or (more likely) Johnson was just being a bit more grumpy than he was usually.

There wasn't going to be a next time, either, or he was going to thump the sod, sailor or Marine - whoever he was.

At least the lad had enough sense to hold his silence. That had to count for something. Though not very much, all things considered.

"Next time there's trouble with that lot, sort it out yourself, when it happens," Johnson remarked after a moment.

Yeah, he'd screwed up. "If there is a next time," he replied darkly, with the sinking feeling that there probably would indeed be a next time.

Well. He had a much better idea of what to do when it happened again.

If he kept on like he was, Johnson had a strong suspicion there would indeed be a next time.

"Hmph," he said.

Well, that was just typical of Johnson, wasn't it. Never waste words where a snort would do. Like Johnson had never screwed up himself.

And yeah; people weren't taking him seriously because he'd begun to turn into what he'd hoped he wouldn't.

It was nearly time to be going. The sentries wouldn't check themselves. Johnson suppressed an irritated sigh and wondered, not for the first, at the wisdom of having two corporals aboard.

"Next time, break his other arm."

Thompson blinked, then snorted. "I might just do that," he managed, once he could talk again.

He didn't think Johnson was joking - certainly he'd never heard the senior corporal joke before - but he couldn't quite be certain. "Might crack his head for him, though damn sure it won't knock any sense into his skull."

Stupid bugger.

"Head, arm... whichever. Just don't be stupid an' get those bos'un's mates in it."

"Well, o' course not!" What was he, stupid?!

"Again," Johnson added flatly.

Well. Johnson was a conversational bugger, wasn't he. Ah well, nothing new there, then.

"Mmhmm," he said non-committally, trying to strike a spark to light his pipe.

It wasn't like he'd meant for things to turn out the way they had. The idiot sailor only had himself to blame, anyway.

The silence stretched for nearly a minute, with Johnson thinking that he ought to be on his way. Nothing could be gained from hanging about here. At the same time, he couldn't help feeling that it was his responsibility to straighten this fool out a little.

"Be nice if you could think ever' now'n again," he said at length. "It ain't all 'bout followin' the book."

"Hmm." Thompson had finished his pipe in the intervening seconds - it only had a small bowl, after all. "S'pose it ain't, at that."

He recalled something he'd told the youngster de Guarde, a few weeks before. He had to learn to bend - or when to bend, rather - or else he'd break. And sometimes the right thing wasn't necessarily quite correct according to the Articles.

He'd find his own way, but it would have to be quick - sooner, rather than later. Or he might as well not find his way through this at all, and should just hand the stripes back.

Hopeless. That's what this was. Thoroughly hopeless. He was stupid for even making half an effort. Johnson shook his head and offered a bland, "You're on next watch," before tramping off toward the waist.

At least he'd made his point to that fool Crabtree. Whether or not the sailor had the sense to keep himself in line remained to be seen. Johnson would happily put the man's other arm into a sling if Crabtree proved to be a slow learner.

"Yeah," he said in reply to Johnson's bald statement, stowing his pipe and baccy.

Well, he wasn't going to turn into a second Johnson, whatever else he might do. He'd figure his own course, somehow.