The Captain's Quarters

[OOC: Poor Yates, heading back into the lion's den of some very unhappy lions!]

With all the day's events taken into account it was no surprise how soundly the boy slept. At this point not even gunfire could rouse him from his sleep, nor have him at the very least, stir in his 'bed'. Asleep he looked more like a kind soul, for his face was no longer contorted in anger, nor did it bear a look of superiority above others. There were no emotions but the peace into which he slid in the passing few moments.

He curled his hands comfortably to his chest. His shoes lay under him, much where they fell off his feet. His coat still on his being did not restrain him, his neck cloth loosened comfortably, yet at this time remaining on him. Surely he should've undressed from a few mentioned articles, but he was too swiftly asleep to care. For him, the night, if nobody would disturb him, would have been a long and dreamless one.

He really should have seen this coming.

Bolitho had been aware, judging by the few glances he had stolen down the table, that De Guarde had been getting progressively more inebriated as the meal had worn on. Yet, he had not done anything about it. For one, he had not wanted to call attention to the boy's foolishness, and for another, he did not want to appear as though he could not control his midshipmen. But it was all water under the bridge now, for De Guarde had made such a spectacle of himself that Bolitho knew this dinner would not be forgotten for a good long while.

He not said a word during the entire fiasco, but once De Guarde had been removed from the cabin and Bush had called for the men to come and clean up the mess, he knew he had to address his guests.

"I am deeply sorry gentlemen," Bolitho said, "I must apologise for Mr. De Guarde's behavior. Even though he is new to the ship, I would have thought he would have enough decorum to know how to behave at such a function." He paused. "But it seems I was in error."

Edrington wondered how long it would be before the Captain also had to apologize for the behaviour of his Marine Lieutenant. Though he was more likely to pass out than throw up, which was a relief. The marine behind his chair had schooled his face into total expressionlessness, but there was a tension in him as if he waited to catch the man as he fell off his chair.

Edrington hoped that he would not be equally embarrassed by the junior members of his own battalion, once he joined them.

Thompson caught Edrington's glance, and tried to school his face into looking apologetic. What must the man think of this ship after that display? He felt ashamed to be shipmates with the boy. Why he couldn't have stayed aboard his own ship instead of coming here to turn Terpsy into a laughing stock for the Army, he didn't know.

He bit his lip and glanced across at Hardy, wondering if he would need a hand when it came to getting Mister Brandeson out of the cabin and down to his cot.

Lieutenant Bush had resumed his seat by the time Peter returned to the Cabin, but seemed to have no appetite for the meal. He gave his report - six knots, he had not had to shift sails, and the wind east by north. Bush nodded, and ordered him to return to his seat. He did not ask about de Guarde, although clearly this was not because he had forgotten the boy. For the moment he wished to put the incident from everyone's mind.

Peter hurried back to his seat, next to Dr Crozier, conscious of the empty chair across from him.

Of all the people to notice the freckled midshipman's return and subsequently comment on it, it had to be Brandeson. The man was too far gone to have any notion or care of manners, though blessedly he was also too far gone to realise that Hardy had stopped refilling his glass.

"Welcome back, m'boy," the lieutenant rumbled, trying and failing to pick up his fork. "Was fair dull without... you!" The last words in the sentence were interrupted by a hiccup. Hardy winced. It was time to carry his lieutenant out. Hardy gladly surrendered the jug of wine to the captain's steward and turned back his cuffs a couple of times before stepping up to Brandeson's chair. Then he glanced at Captain Bolitho, silently asking permission to remove his officer from the cabin. There had been enough disgrace played out that evening.

Before the captain could respond to Hardy's unspoken wish, there arrived a grand finale to the evening's cuilinary delights. Perhaps a pudding would sweeten everyone's mood. With a bit of childlike anticipation, Dr. Crozier craned his neck to see what sort of marvel was being brought in. He hoped it would salvage the disastrous evening, but he also hoped it would be tasty.

Edrington watched the Marine make what were clearly practised preparations to remove his lieutenant. The Captain was already angry, and the collapse of the lieutenant would be too much for any commanding officer to bear. That he and Findlay were here made it worse. There was no reason - other than awed interest - to watch the lieutenant's humiliation. The arrival of the pudding offered a brief distraction, although the midshipmen, subdued by the abrupt and unpleasant departure of their new companion, livened up to see it. As did the doctor.

Edrington drank some more of the wine - too good to be wasted on drunks.

The only good thing about the arrival of the officers' afters was that it meant the meal was nearly over. Thompson felt embarrassed at what had happened because it not only put Terpsy in a bad light, but possibly the whole of the Navy and, considering the state Lieutenant Brandeson was in, the Marines as well.

At least Colonel Edrington had seemed to understand when the Marine had apologised earlier. He topped up the Army officer's glass again, trying to do his best to counteract the aspersions cast on the Corps by his officer's behaviour.

Throughtout the dinner so far Leat had contented himself, as ever with conversing intermittantly with his neighbours. He had never been a great conversationalist - growing up in a funeral parlour did that for you - but when he coul he would stick his tuppence in.

He had, as probably everyone else had, been watching De Guarde's steady progression towards drunkeness. It seemed the boy not only was a tyrant in the making, but also rather too fond of drink; two qualities which especially in a junior officer were anything but desirable. It had got to the stage where he was going to suggest De Guarde be removed when Bush beat him to it... only then for the midshipman inquestion to throw up over the first lieutenant. Least sat there, mortified. De Guarde could not have picked a worse target, and from now he was certain to have both the senior lieutenants against - if not the rest of the officers and crew.

And to make matters worse Brandeson was up to his usual. He was by and large a harmless drunk, destined no doubt to end up impaled on a Frenchman's sword, and would simply just fold up in his chair or slide under the table - but after De Guarde's disgraceful behaviour, it would by no means do for another of their officers to disgace himself in front of their army guests. And so it was when everyone was momentarily distracted by the entry of the pudding that Leat nodded permission to Hardy to carry his lieutenant out. Bolitho would not mind - would probably be rather glad of his departure.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble with the pudding - ships of different sizes with candied masts - but it was unfortunate that their masterpiece was overshadowed by the spectacular departure of the new midshipman and the far more discreetly handled departure of Mr Brandeson.

Edrington waited until everything had settled down, and conversations were being restarted, before asking Lieutenant Leat whether the arrangement of ships had any particular significance.

It was this sort of thing that Thompson really didn't like. Having to stand there while he could see what they were eating, knowing he'd only had salt beef, and would get plum duff on Sunday.

But that looked interesting. It looked like a battle, or something, though he couldn't tell which one, never having seen a general action.

Peter was trying to count the ships. If you assumed that the officers at the head would have a post-ship each, then that would leave the smaller ships dotted around for the midshipmen. Would the person making the cake have ensured that there were enough for everyone? Or would historical accuracy have been more important?

Leat's attention was drawn back to the pudding by Edrington's question, and he smiled as he say the layout.

"Ah yes, I believe it is meant to depict the Battle of the Nile," he said craning his neck forward a little to get a better look. "The cook was there I hear. Yes, here is the French Line, and ours."

The selection of midshipmen that remained at the table, awaited the distribution of the dessert with outward patience. It was clear however, by the looks on their faces, that they were ready to forget the ill presentation of one of their own for just this time, and delight instead in the prospect of the present feast.

Surely they've eaten much during the earlier dining and the youngest could be found regretting that they've stuffed their bellies so vehemently, but it was not on a single one's mind to deny themselves this treasure.

Young Fletcher's eyes were trained on the sweetened battle of ships, and it was unsure whether he was more interested in the action and portrayal of the battle, or if his attention was solely given to the components of which the ships were made. Such delight and eagerness was seen in this boy, that even a cold heart would warm at the glimpse of him.

Mr. Kinsella and Mr. Chandos were better in their station to keep a face of an officer. Still there was no doubt, by the smiles on their faces and their looks to the ships, what was in their hearts.

Julian Dunnock exchanged a look with mr. Fletcher and both grinned, exchanging a hushed conversation when proper, which mostly consisted of the topic on dessert. It took a certain meaningful glance from Kinsella to hush them, and tame their young spirits of which Fletcher was most obvious in revealing.

(OOC: I'd believe I know the reason to be sober at such a time My, this sounds delicious! *Mathew is indeed green with envy.. o.o or is it sickness that? Um.. ^.^

Leat saw the look on Fletcher's face and could not help but grin.

"Don't worry, Mister Fletcher," he said genially. "There shall be ample left for you. Sir," he said to Bolitho. "Perhaps the Orient for Mister Fletcher?"

He nodded eagerly in response.

It was deemed impossible for the boy to look any more glad at the sight of the sweets, but at Leat's words, his eyes shone with even greater delight and a small look to the lieutenant revealed, just how much gratefulness the boy felt to his superior. And at that, also admiration.

He could have jumped in his chair with how happy he felt, and it was only because of his wish to impress the second lieutenant and to make him proud, that kept him proper in his seat watching the steward's hands and workings.

Such a fine gentleman he showed himself to be, his back straight, hands at the table and from his waist up, not a single twist or an impatient turn. Beneath, and hidden from view, his expectations had nearly got the better of his feet. Just so that no sound would be made, he lifted them a bit from the floors and held them so till he trusted them to stand still.

It really was, in a way, quite pathetic to see how happy his simple gesture made Fletcher; but he recalled all too well the lean days of the midshipmen's berth, and that Fletcher barely had a year of Yates, the youngest of the company - although Yates seemed to have acquired a better way of presenting himself.

"Mister Yates," he said, handing him the dish. "Be so good as to pass that to Mister Fletcher."

[OOC: Watch out, Yates; I think Fletcher is trying to compete with you for the 'Cutest Midshipman' title. XD]

[Then he can be cut in half by the cannon ball in our first engagement, Sir. That is always the fate of the cutest midshipman. ]

The Orient was one of the biggest ships, and Peter wondered why Fletcher had deserved it. He resisted the urge to hit it with his spoon - "Look, it's blown up!" - and passed the plate, returning to look with interest as the Lieutenant allocated ships like an Admiral exercising patronage.

[OOC: What cruel talk, Mr. Yates! You should be ashamed of yourself!...... even if it may be true. .. and do I sense jealousy there of Mr. Fletcher?]

Fletcher gave a glad thank you to Yates and to the lieutenant for the plate of Orient that now sat before him. The word was genuine and heartfelt, though he did not even notice the look that Yates had given him.

He gazed at his prize ship (XD) as if contemplating the most proper assault at the dish , but also politely to wait so that each of the gathered had a plate filled before he would start his boarding er.. start with a bite at his cut ofcourse.

If there was one failing that Edward Leat would admit to, it was a sweet tooth. He was, of course, more practised in decorum than any little midshipman, and outwardly there was no difference in his demeanour than had this been the soup at the beginning of the meal. He waited patiently for the captain to serve the others, only picking up his spoon when all were served. He had received what must have been sloop, but Leat was infinitely more interested in the sponge base that lay underneath which looked, for all intents and purposes, to be along the lines of treacle pudding. Which, in absence of a dish of chocolate, was a turn up for the books indeed.

Edrington could remember the Battle of the Nile - or rather, the celebrations that followed news of it. He had been in England, and there had been much talk in Town and at home, of how this wonderful victory would turn the balance, even though it left the French Army still in Egypt, and poised to attack British interests in India.

The charts in the newspapers were reduced to pastry ships, served out to men who clearly relished their pudding as much as any midshipman. Rather too sweet, he thought, looking at the syrupy base, but nevertheless he accepted a ship that he thought was the Audacious with a smile.

The lieutenant noticed Edrington's speculative glance at the pastry ship presented before him, and smiled to his neighbour.

"I'm afriad it may not compare with army fare, my lord," he said. "We sailors must by nature make do with what we can carry with us. Cook makes a sterling effort for us, though."

Frederick Chandos sat upright, with a calm look to his person. As the eldest of the midshipmen he looked to the others much like his younger siblings. He smiled towards Fletcher who had, once right, begun to dissect the ship's hull. The youth needed to learn some tact still. Too eager and he may have a hard time in his later years. Ofcourse it was better than if he was apathetic about his work.

".. There, there, Mr. Fletcher. Do not make such haste. Orient is under your full command now. I doubt it shall be going anywhere." The boy flushed red in embarrassment and his hand slowed it's pace. Mr. Chandos nodded, Kinsella smirking to the right of Fletcher.

Chandos looked to him, and though neither spoke they have said much to each other with mere looks. It was thus then that Mr. Kinsella had to force himself to stifle a laugh, and instead was content with the mere broad smile.

Mr. Dunnock glanced at Yates :"Which ship did you get?" As the feast was coming to an end, atleast the pea pushing has been mostly avoided.

Hauling Brandeson up from his chair was a difficult task, but once he had the man on his feet, it was almost child's play to get him walking. Or at least moving forward. Hardy was glad that Brandeson didn't resist either. It was embarrassing enough to have to manhandle his lieutenant in full view of the ship's officer complement and passengers.