The Captain's Quarters

"Quite," Brandeson rumbled, the thread of that particular conversation already lost in his jumbled thoughts. He lifted his newly-refilled glass in silent salute to Bolitho as the sea officer settled in at the head of the table, then the pale red of the wine was gone as he gulped down the contents of the glass.

Hardy caught Thompson's gaze over the tops of the officers' heads and gave a slight shake of his head, his expression one of resigned acceptance. There was no changing Brandeson or his overwhelming fondness for strong drink. Just the endless work of cleaning up after the Marine lieutenant. Then a ghost of a smile lifted the corner of Hardy's mouth. As onerous a task as serving as Brandeson's attendant was, it was certainly never boring.

Thompson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Do that, and it'd be seen by the wrong person, and he'd get hauled over the coals for it. He didn't know how Hardy put up with the man, he really didn't.

He thought the Army officer he'd been detailed to serve seemed a much more pleasant character, and less likely to fly into a passion over something small. Well, as long as Hardy kept Brandeson's glass full, the Lieutenant was hardly likely to complain.

Crozier smiled at Findlay, unperturbed by Brandeson's interruption. He was obviously quite used to it. "No, you didn't miss anything very exciting. At least, not as far as I know. Perhaps Mister Leat will contradict me and say that you missed some unusual sailing pattern or remarkable weather phenomenon, in which case I will have missed it too. But apart from your unfortunate indisposal - and the addition of another new midshipman today," he added, feeling magnanimous and nodding to De Guarde, "it has been an uneventful voyage so far."

"A trifle choppy, at times, and cold, but - generally uneventful." Edrington glanced up the table towards the Captain. "And we must hope it will remain so. Captain, when do you think we will reach Lisbon?"

[OOC: Correct me on this if I'm wrong, because I'm not entirely sure how long it would have taken to get to Lisbon from England...]

Bolitho turned to look at Edrington.

"If the weather holds, it should not take more than another week or so," he said, "I hope the voyage is not too difficult for Your Lordship and Major Findlay. I'm assuming you have both traveled by sea before, have you not?"

[Not sure either, but a week should do it. Whatever it is, unless we take a wrong turning somewhere]

"For myself, it has been as pleasant a voyage as I could have hoped for. It is not that long since I did the crossing in the other direction, from Vigo. That was most uncomfortable, but we were grateful enough to be on our way home."

While the others were talking, Dr. Crozier turned to the young midshipman at his side and said, "Mister Yates, I've hardly spoken to you since the first day or so of our voyage. How have you been faring in the midshipmen's berth?" He was glad it was Yates beside him and not De Guarde. Let Mr. Bush converse with that young gentleman if he so chose. Crozier suspected that he would not.

Peter had been busy eating, while keeping an eye on the other midshipmen. He had felt sure that he should not initiate any conversation - midshipmen surely counted as children in that regard. He had also been keeping an eye on de Guarde. There was the slightest sense of - not protectiveness, but he did not want the other boy to draw more attention to himself by poor manners.

Dr Crozier's words made him swallow his mouthful. The wine glass sat still full in front of him, and he was tempted to drink from it as others did, before replying, to give weight to his words. But he did not need to - Dr Crozier was looking at him in his usual kindly way. "It is good of you to ask, sir, and I am very happy." He looked up the table at the others. "Everyone is most helpful, and ..." He grinned suddenly. "It is all very different from being at home, but I think I will like it when I know what I am doing. At present there is so much to learn that I don't have time to stop and think."

Crozier gave him a smile, not of politeness or kindness but of understanding. "Yes... Yes, it is very different from home." He looked down at his plate for a moment, the smile still lingering forgotten on his face. "I was sent from home at a young age - younger than you - to be apprenticed. Not quite as far from home as you are now, not nearly as far as you will go! But it was far enough. I missed my family." He was speaking very quietly now. "There were many nights I cried. But as you can see, I survived it!"

Thompson leaned forward to refill the Colonel's glass. He would far rather be up on deck, skylarking with the sailors, but he was never one to shirk a duty. And the Colonel had actually spoken to him... most people he knew would barely remember he was there unless they wanted something. Like Brandeson. Thompson wouldn't be in Hardy's shoes for any money.

(OOC - it's bedtime for this Marine's player. See you tomorrow, I hope?)

Peter was quite surprised at the doctor's confession. Perhaps he had cried at the start, when he had parted from Papa, and trod down the urge to call him back and say that he had changed his mind. But not since he had been on the ship. That would have been unthinkable once he was in the midshipman's berth, with the others watching him. He was not a child.

"Did you not want to be apprenticed, sir? I think that would be terrible, to be sent to do something you did not want."

"Oh, I did. Of course I did, in theory!" The doctor laughed. "But it was my father's decision, not mine. And remember, I was only a boy. I must confess, I wrote letters to my father begging him to send for me, to bring me home - and apparently my mother entreated for the same - but he stood firm. And I'm glad now that he did," he added, sounding more stoical than glad.

"What were you apprenticed as?" Peter asked, thinking that you surely did not become an apprentice doctor. People were apprenticed to tradesmen, like tailors or silversmiths, although not anyone he knew. Farmers' children became farmers, and the smiths had had the smithy for generations.

[Belated OOC - Goodnight. See you later today]

Now his smile changed to amusement. "Why, I was apprenticed to a doctor, of course!" Seeing the lad's confusion, he explained, "I worked in the dispensary primarily. Preparing the powders and distillations and tinctures and learning about their properties. And I was also an assistant to Doctor Graham, an extra pair of hands when he needed them. Just as I have M'Clure, my mate, and Bridgens here as my loblolly boy," he said, nodding over his shoulder to the man behind his chair who gave them a confused stare upon hearing his name. "In the earliest days, I did simple things like preparing bandages and stirring things and cleaning up the mess. I was almost like a footman for the one older lad. Those were the days of drudgery and homesickness, but they didn't last forever."


[ooc - goodnight, private!]

Bolitho smiled at Edrington's response.

"I'm certain you were quite grateful. It's always pleasant to return home. Though I dearly love the sea-faring life, I still derive no greater pleasure than returning to my family home in Falmouth." He paused for a moment, looking slightly wistful as he thought about his home. "I am glad to hear you have not been troubled by the voyage thus far."

Then Bolitho glanced at Findlay, who still looked rather under the weather.

"I think you are faring a far sight better than Major Findlay," he remarked, "I hope he is feeling better now."

Edrington nodded. "It is good to be at home, though I had hardly any time there - the battalion was ordered to Lisbon, and I spent half the time in London and half with the battalion. With visits home fitted in between." Having new uniforms made, since the one he had worn on those last days in Spain had been fit for nothing. And the rest had been left somewhere on the retreat. Everything new, even his horses. Other than sword and pistols, which had stayed with him throughout. "But I am glad that we can fight him overseas, even if it does mean going on ships."

He looked across at Findlay thinking that the man did not look wholly recovered, and smiled encouragingly. The wind seemed to be picking up, and the sea with it, if he could trust the evidence of the wine in his glass. Refilled, quietly and without fuss while he was talking. He tilted his head sideways to smile his thanks at Thompson.

[And I thought he was starting to look better...]

Conversation swirled around him like a whirlpool of muddied sound; Bolitho had chosen to fix his attention on Edrington and Crozier was engaged with the midshipman on his other side. Brandeson did not present a very cheerful prospect which left the frigate's two lieutenants and the midshipman who had been staring. George took a careful sip of his wine and replaced the glass with equal caution. He hated small talk - it had been one of the deciding factors into his joining the army to begin with. The prospect of moving in London society with its tedious, endless rounds of trite niceties had been unbearable. And besides, anything that he could have politely asked had already been answered, and so, he murmured a few responses and smiled and nodded and drank his wine as was customary for gentlemen to do whenever he caught the eye of someone else at table.

Always aware of those around him, the doctor turned to regard Findlay who had become rather quiet. And it was not because of a voracious appetite, though Crozier decided not to comment on the undiminished plate of food.

Speaking quietly but just loud enough to include the young midshipman, he said, "Major Findlay, I was just telling my friend Mister Yates here about my time as an apprentice in my youth, before I began my formal studies in surgery. But I must confess that I have no idea how a man like yourself, a major in the dragoons, would begin his career. Or at what age."

Crozier's inquiry was unexpected, breaking into the silent train of thoughts shifting through the major's brain. George looked up from the greasy remnants on his plate and assumed a solicitous expression, a smile of good cheer as he turned to his neighbor. "It is, I am afraid, probably less exciting than you might imagine, Doctor. Age is not as much of a factor as it is in the navy," he paused and bowed his head to Yates, "where most young gentlemen come to sea when their peers are entering into Eton or Harrow. Rather more important is how loudly a man's purse can jangle."

He interrupted himself to thank the marine behind him for refilling his glass and then continued. "In my particular case, I had the supreme luck of having both ready funds and helpful relations," he said with some embarrassment. It never did, after all, to puff oneself up or to brag. Quickly, George rushed ahead. "I was commissioned a lieutenant in the Twenty-Ninth at the age of seventeen and saw my first action in Holland when the Duke of York invaded in 'Ninety-nine. Transfers and other purchases," George made a vague gesture, and now here I am, a major in the Greys." Smiling, he raised his glass to the surgeon and joked, "You see? It requires a great deal less skill, I'm sure, than joining Surgeon's Hall."

"Ah well," Crozier replied for want of anything better to say. "A lot of luck is involved there too!" He wondered if it would be politic to ask the same question of Edrington, but the gentleman was occupied in conversation with Leat and the captain. Bush appeared to be listening intently, and the midshipmen were busily feeding themselves. "Would you like some of this salad, Major? It's very fresh."

The meal, prepared and served by the captain's steward, at least smelled appetising. Hardy felt his mouth start to water as the officers filled their plates. What must it be like, to eat even just a little bit better than the crew. His stomach growled quietly. Later, once the officers were gone from the cabin, he would attempt to wheedle a few scraps from the presiding steward.

There was a gravelly-sounding cough from the chair in front of him and Hardy realised that Brandeson's glass had again run dry. The Marine leant forward at once to refill it, hesitating just for a moment before stepping away again. Brandeson would never notice and hopefully neither would any of the other officers, but Hardy had liberated a hunk of meat from the lieutenant's plate as he was drawing his arm back. He allowed himself a fleeting, self-satisfied smirk as he covered his mouth to stifle a sudden cough and thereby made the bit of meat disappear. Just as easy as picking pockets in Piccadilly.

Brandeson, his face by now flushed and his eyes glassy, seemed to be aware that conversations were going on around him. He turned ponderously toward the Army officer seated at his left and caught the last of his answer to Doctor Crozier's question. "Skill has a lessened value when an officer has a fortune to support him," the Marine lieutenant commented gruffly, intending his remark to agree with the Army fellow. It didn't occur to him there could be any slight in his words. "Come, damn you, Hardy, and top me up again," he added crossly, though blessedly in a marginally quieter voice, shifting in his chair to spit his steward with a bleary-eyed glare. He held up his empty glass.

The Marine behind Findlay's chair looked as though he wished to be violently ill at his lieutenant's display.

"But skill and fortune together are a happy marriage indeed," the doctor said a trifle loudly. "Lieutenant Brandeson..." He had intended to start a new topic of conversation when his mind suddenly went blank. What could he possibly talk about with Lieutenant Brandeson? "Tell me, what's this I hear about a magnificent new rifle that has come on board? Or is it a musket? I overheard a group of the men talking about it the other day, and it sounded... quite fascinating." Bloody hell.

Edrington, in a lull in his conversation with the Captain and Lieutenant Leat, had heard Brandeson's comment. It had been addressed to Findlay, and was offensive both in tone and content, but, given Brandeson's state, probably not in intent. He also caught Crozier's response. The shape of the case possibly, unless they had pick-locks aboard, which was more than likely considering that sometimes they recruited seamen direct from the gaols. He had obtained the rifle on his last days in London, and had not yet fired it - or discharged it, would probably be more correct. It might be interesting to do so here on board ship.

Brandeson appeared uninterested in any talk that was not of drink, and Edrington leaned across to say to the Doctor: "I am - I ought to be surprised there is talk of it. It is in a locked case in my cabin. It's a Girandoni, an Austrian rifle with some unusual features, which I acquired in London."

While others were immersed in conversation De Guarde's attentiveness was given to the food that lay before him. He ate slowly, a small bite at a time, often flushed down with a few sips of wine. He looked briefly to his neighbour, lieutenant Bush, and shyly returned his gaze to his plate. The man did not seem one ready to talk. He drank his fill from his glass and placed it upon the table tapping it lightly. The boy that stood beside him took and refilled it.

He drank again, half a glass, before he returned to the food that was gold, compared to that, in the mid's berth. He dabbed his lips a little and glanced across the table. A conversation here and there, an exchange of words about the length of their voyage, then of the past and promotion. He looked back to his plate. There was still some food left for him to consume.

The glass was drunk empty again, but the tap followed just the same. He felt his cheeks take on a soft rosey tint, but ignored the heat coming from them. Engaged in no conversation he seemed to be in his own little world of wine and of dine. A small pleased smile spread across his face, curling his lips upwards a bit. The taste of his drink, lingering still on his tongue. Free drinks at the captain's table and good or 'tleast better food. The boy had spared a small glance to Yates, who had a talking partner himself, then to the lavishly adorned Findlay. No longer staring his eyes traveled past each face.

He tipped his glass again, then lowered it and gently stirred the liquid. It was oddly mesmerizing to watch light reflect through the wine. Much more refined than grog. He made another small sip, stirred the glass, then sniffed it gently as if testing what the drink contained. He soon lost interest in that, and gulped the rest down with more vigour. The sounds about him seemed to become a soft buzz of words, a murmur of letters joined together. He knew he wasn't expected to speak. Not that he had much to say... But darn, the wine was good. More please.

Thompson noticed Hardy liberate something from Lieutenant Brandeson's plate, and grinned at the man before resuming a blank expression more suited to waiting table. He winced as he heard what Brandeson said to the Army Major next to him, and leant forward on the pretence of topping up Edrington's glass again.

"'M sorry, sir," he said in a low voice, hoping it was covered by the conversations of the other guests.