12th June; Rumble on the Gundeck

His wrist was not completely healed, according to the surgeon, but Fingers knew otherwise. He had been using his left hand for small tasks since yesterday and it didn't pain much all that much. That meant he was healed. Or enough to mean Fingers felt confident enough to tell the gunner he was fit for his duties again. Mister Hennock had not said much, except to direct Fingers to inspect the shot garlands for any balls that were in need of chipping and sanding.

Fingers was pleased to have a meaningful task again, such that he went straight up to the gundeck to begin at once. He had long since discarded his sling - it was somewhere outside the gunner's stores - and was quite prepared to ignore any twinges of pain in his wrist. He was better and he knew it, and sod the sawbones!

This attitude lasted only as long as it took for him to reached the first of the three shot garlands and grab for the first iron ball. The twelve-pound ball was heavy at the best of times, but now it was quite beyond Fingers' ability. His left wrist protested the strain immediately with a white-hot flash of pain and Fingers dropped the ball, which struck an adjacent ball and knocked it from the garland. In an instant, the two were loose on the deck and rolling freely, their progress marked by a dull, crunching rumble.

Fingers swore. The great cabin sentry was staring in wide-eyed disbelief. The two round shot were trundling heedlessly this way and that, their course dictated by the ship's regular rolling motion, and Fingers knew he was in trouble. His wrist was throbbing, which meant he could not pick up either of the two, so the best he could do was chase them down. Maybe. He went for the nearer ball, his good hand stretching out after it, but the ball simply rolled almost merrily away from, down the gundeck.

Thompson was off-duty and in his shirtsleeves, setting his kit to rights, when he heard the first rumble overhead. His heart nearly stopped as he was carried, in his memories, back eight years to another ship. The last time he had heard that sound was when he'd served in Temeraire; she had been moored in Bantry Bay with orders to sail for foreign waters despite the rumours of peace with France.

He shook himself; this was not Temeraire, she was not in harbour... and he had not heard the slightest suspicion that anyone was disaffected in any way.

Besides, this was the forenoon watch, and if anyone was tempted to roll shot, it was usually done at night under the cover of darkness.

Something was not right and he grabbed at jacket and hat to make himself halfway presentable before going to find out what it was.

He emerged onto the gundeck with his jacket still half-buttoned and looked around warily, in case there was trouble brewing.

He was going to catch this runaway nuisance of a twelve-pound shot. He was. That's all there was to it. Precisely how he'd manage this one-handed remained to be seen. But Fingers was determined. He scurried along after the ball, his right hand outstretched, no more than inches away from it...

...and collided rather solidly with the side of the Number Five gun. The impact knocked him flat on his rump, both surprised and slightly dazed. It was the price to be paid for not watching where he was going, though of course this was a thought he was not likely to entertain.

Meanwhile, the ball he'd been pursuing rolled away merrily on its way aft.

And of course there wasn't anyone to be seen up here; all the men on watch were busy up on the weatherdeck or somewhere aloft, trimming sail. The idlers were also busy, either down on the orlop or up on the weatherdeck somewhere, taking advantage of the light. Thompson glanced at the sentry at his post outside the Great Cabin, but there was nothing wrong there that he could see.

Which meant, of course, that whatever was wrong was for'ard. Naturally.

Thompson hastily finished buttoning his jacket before turning to investigate. And of course the man or men, or whoever it was, was somewhere out of sight, hidden either by the 12-pounder guns, lashed tight to the ship's side, or by one or other of the ladders leading to the weatherdeck.

That was, of course, if they hadn't sneaked down the for'ard ladder to the messdeck, which they would have done if they had any sense at all.

Thompson paused as a cannonball rolled slowly towards him then hesitated before altering its course somewhat as Terpsy rolled.

She could not be a shot-rolling ship - there simply had to be an innocent explanation, although Thompson couldn't think of one which would explain both a loose cannonball trundling about the deck and the absence of anyone to set it rolling there.

"Who's there?" he called, starting after the loose iron ball. He had to catch that before the officers heard it and also came to the logical conclusion - especially if it was the wrong conclusion.

Shit. The great cabin sentry had sent for help. Or something. Fingers was caught. Maybe. He could avoid getting into trouble with the gunner - and the sawbones, too - if he could sneak away to the forrard ladder and disappear, either up or down it. Or no. Down. He'd be spotted in an instant if he tried to go up.

The light ringing in his head from colliding with the gun carriage made it a little difficult to think. Grimacing to himself, Fingers inched toward the front of the carriage, where there was just enough space for him to squeeze in between it and the hull. The only real solution he could strike upon was to hide.

The ball was still careering around randomly, if somewhat slowly. Thompson was of no mind to keep chasing it; he was under no illusion that it would not be 'consummate with the dignity of a non-commissioned officer in His Majesty's Royal Marines' (which was how an officer would describe it) or some such cat-blash. This was probably a good time to make use of his new rank, and get someone else to chase the damn thing.

He turned to the sentry outside the Great Cabin. "Ware. Did you see anythin' amiss a moment or so ago?" he asked, before summoning one of the off-duty drummers.

"Loose cannonball. Maybe two - they needs catchin'," he said, and turned back to the sentry, one eyebrow raised interrogatively.

Now there was a question that would land a man in trouble no matter how he answered it, Ware thought. He could be honest and give Fingers' misfortune away or he could lie to Thompson and land himself in it for lying to a corporal. Damned either way, really...

"I didn't see anythin', Corporal," Ware answered, deciding suddenly on what he hoped would be a workable compromise. "Thought I heard an officer comin' down, so I was looking up at the ladder a bit, like."

The rattle of shoes on the ladder, coming up instead of down, saved him from further speech. Blessedly. It was one of the Shepherds.

Hmm. Really.

Thompson merely arched an eyebrow at Ware's reply; he might have believed that six months after he'd entered the Corps, but not after twelve years in it. But there was nothing further that he would learn from the man, either.

"Ah, Shepherd. There seem to have been a couple of balls overset from a shot garland," Thompson said, indicating the nearest ball which was was making its slow meandering way towards them.

Whether they had been overset on purpose or by accident was still to be determined, of course, and Thompson moved for'rard to see if he could find out which of the two it might have been. Hopefully without getting anyone into trouble for no reason.

Ware didn't care whether or not the corporal believed him so long as no more questions were asked. Which, happily, none were. Instead, Thompson had turned his unwelcome attention to Shepherd, whichever of the two it was.

"Aye, and?" The drummer asked, daringly close to insolence.

Thompson stiffened, just a little, at the lad's tone. Really, the twins were going to push things too far one day. "And I ain't a-catchin' 'em. You can't mean to tell me you can't catch a coupla cannonballs?"

And of course the longer he spent talking, the more time the culprit (accidental or purposeful) had to get away.

The drummer returned Thompson's gaze levelly, without apparent fear. "Mebbe I can, sure."

"That's me tellin' you you will," Thompson returned flatly.

"So it is." Shepherd gave a quick shrug and ambled off forrard, though Ware thought sure he'd been about to see the drummer pulled up sharpish for being flippant.

"Shepherd." That was precious close to the wind for Thompson's liking. "Mind your manners, an' show a bit of respect."

Any more insolence and Thompson would not be able to overlook it - he knew that to allow it once was to slowly allow respect for the NCO concerned, and therefore the rank itself, to crumble. And that could not be allowed to begin to happen. Especially in front of witnesses.

The drummer halted, straightened his back, then made a smart about-turn. "Corporal." He saluted. "Fetchin' yer runaway round shot. Corporal."

With a second salute - rather an unnecessary one at that, in Ware's view - Shepherd about-turned again and tramped stiffly after the first of the two wayward balls.

"Thank you." Thompson chose to take the lad's words as genuine, and offered the thanks as though they had been.

Too polite could be, in its own way, just as insolent as not polite enough, while giving the man on the receiving end less opportunity to pull the other up.

There was simply no way one could enforce a precise level of politeness and respect, of course. But proper respect, real respect, had to be earned and Thompson was under no illusion that he was being made to earn it. He was not going to be found wanting, by either the officers or his fellow Marines, if he could possibly help it.

He turned to see if he could find the person who'd set the balls rolling, or if not the man himself, some clue as to who it was.

At least it was Shepherd chasing after the two loose balls like a common dogsbody. Better the lad than Ware himself. He relaxed slightly, or as much as he dared to do with Thompson still in the near vicinity. Just don't let the corporal ask him any other questions. If the man was anything like Johnson when it came to being lied to...

~

It was a tight squeeze but Fingers had done it. Now he lay completely still, scarcely daring to breathe, hoping fervently that whoever was nearby did not think to look here, between the front of the gun carriage and the hull.

Thompson turned back to Ware thoughtfully. "So you've seen nobody at all who might've knocked 'em off the shot garland even by accident?"

It must have been an accident - there were too many people passing through this deck heading either topside or below for anyone to think that they could get away with deliberately going shot-rolling.

Thompson had been involved personally in quelling a mutiny - not a big one or a violent one, fortunately - but that had also happened in a previously happy ship, though Temeraire was much bigger than Terpsichore, and the men had had a genuine grievance. Thompson could not figure out how anyone in Terpsy could have a grievance that would lead to shot-rolling with none of the usual mutterings and complaints being heard first.

Especially below decks - he would have heard something in a ship as small as Terpsy, after all.

Shit.

Ware hesitated, for just a fraction of a second too long, unsure to the last whether to be honest. "No, Corporal." He could take the barest comfort in sounding sure of himself, though.

"Really." It was a flat statement. "Nobody at all. There ain't been nobody on the gundeck since you was posted, an' afore I come up here?"

He'd thought Ware, of all people, could lie better than that.

There was a way out if ever he'd seen one!

"Aye, Corporal. There was the gunner an' his mate, about one bell into the watch. Then some landsmen, Mister Colburn with 'em, doin' somethin' in the manger. That was at about three bells. Been nobody since."

"So a cannonball just decided it'd fall off the shot garland at, what, four bells?"

It was certainly nearer five bells now, anyway.

The gunner and his mate... That brought something to mind. "You ain't seen the gunner's boy lately, have you?" he asked casually.

Ware managed not to shrug, barely. "Near enough to, Corporal." And then he realised his error, entirely too late to correct it. Maybe. "The gunner's boy? No, Corporal."

So, there had apparently been nobody up here since about three bells and then a cannonball - two! - had gone rolling around the deck, apparently of its own accord, at near enough four bells. A whole half-hour later.

"Seems we might want to be careful if cannonballs can jump off shot-garlands any time they want," Thompson said, a little sarcastically. He nodded decisively and turned for'rard again, thinking that he was fairly sure what must have happened.

If he was right, though, Fingers was likely to still be around here somewhere. The scamp's first instinct would be to hide - he probably thought he'd get a whipping for dropping a cannonball, which must be heavy enough for the child.

And hadn't he hurt his wrist recently, too? Thompson was sure he had; he seemed to recall the lad having a bandage on when he'd seen the boys skylarking a few days ago.

Making a reply to that was foolish so Ware held his silence. By rights he should have warned Fingers off, even if it had meant very briefly leaving his post. Too late now, of course, and the was very shortly going to be discovered. There'd be trouble then, damn it.

~

"Corporal. Fetched yer runaway shot fer you, Corporal." Shepherd stood near the mainmast, two twelve pound balls balanced awkwardly in his arms.