Light duties and men

"Aye, I do that, and so do a lot of my Marines. You should ask Thompson about his musket, some day."

He ran his thumb along the flint. "No, that's a bad flint. No spark, as you said. And did you say there was some rust as well?"

He checked the number engraved on the butt-plate. "That's Beech's. He's getting careless, I must say. You ready for the next one, then?" He put the musket to one side, separate from the first one, and looked at De Guarde for his answer.

"Why do you call it a she? ...'s it because she takes as much care n' love t' take care of as a lady would?" He beamed proud when the man agreed with his judgement, and though he didn't recognise the man's name he was glad that he spotted something and was right for it.

He nodded more eagerly when asked if he was ready for the next." I am." He added in word. It helped to concentrate on searching for flaws on the musket. It eased his mind of the pain of his backside and the compliments and good words that he got, were a bonus that he was glad to receive. And he learnt something.

"You know the muskets by numbers then.. n' each n' every one .. n' whose they are?" He asked shyly, fearing his question a silly one, yet encouraged by the earlier patience in the man.

Quinn pulled the third musket out, to repeat the pattern, pleased that the boy had grown confident enough to ask questions.

"I never rightly thought why I call a musket 'she'," he said. "They do need care and attention, right enough, but a good Marine never leaves a musket further than arm's reach away, unless it's to be locked up safe down here. And if you've ever seen a man who takes proper care of his musket, just watch how he holds her, when he's not on duty with it. Private Thompson, for example, or Corporal Johnson."

He took a breath to answer the second question. "Yes, I do know the numbers, and whose musket each one is. I've got them all written in a book, and because I do this every week, I know which Marine has which musket. It makes it easier to see how they are looking after the guns, if I know each man has his own, you see."

He held this musket out. "So, what do you think of this one, then?"

He flinched at the name of the corporal. He didn't want to see him, let alone observe his skill with the musket. The private on the other hand sounded harmless enough. Perhaps he would take on the sergeant's suggestion and observe that man when he was of duty. But this was not the time or place to ponder about his future.

He leaned closer again, his hands more confident on the musket. As he pulled the trigger the spark was a good one. Try as he might he could not find any rust on it, the mechanism itself working as smoothly as it could. "I think it's a very finely cleaned one." He gave his judgement in confidence." No rust either." He slid his forefinger and middle against the smooth surface of the barrel. "Is .. is this one Thompson's?" he observed the musket.

Working with the sergeant here felt as if he were allowed into a circle of confidence. He learnt of the men in their more private affairs - their muskets. Each had one and yet the musket was different in how it was tended to if even in the slightest detail. "What happens with the men that haven't taken better care with their muskets?" He asked curiously after a moment. All malice was gone from him for now, the eagerness to learn when it was done in the present environment, clear and true.

"Thompson's still got his, up on deck. That one's probably the Corporal's." He took it and placed it with the first. "If a musket ain't up to standard, I have a word with its owner and give him the chance to put it right. If it keeps not being up to standard, then I'd give him extra duties and drills until it's put right."

The boy seemed eager to help, and to learn. He seemed a different person to the one who had had Cob Chase flogged. This De Guarde was more open and willing to learn. More helpful, too, and much more like a middy should be. There was hope, then.

He pulled the next one out.

"Oh." For a moment he looked at the musket wearily. Its owner was an unpleasant man, a very unkind and cruel man! His words still stung and he remembered them as clearly as if he were standing there and telling them to him. Ofcourse another part stung more, but that, well that he knew he deserved. Slapping a man, the corporal. As good as it felt, was not right.

He looked at the next musket and with an even greater zeal checked it's work, its rustyness or lack there of and the flint. He was quicker than before. "Drills. Ah,.."He knew which. Probably similar to those done on deck at times. "This one's alright."He motioned."Clean enough, not rusty 'tleast.."He paused and looked at it again. "I think we can put it with the rest!" He nodded again. "what will we look at, when we are done with them?" He motioned to the other muskets. He was smiling. Though there were traces of pain in his eyes, he was indeed smiling.

"Well, as well as muskets, we have pistols, that work the same way, and cutlasses and boarding pikes, that need checking for rust."

The look the boy had given Johnson's musket, on being told who its owner was, had not escaped Quinn. It was a shame he'd riled the boy, but then, Quinn and the Marines - and to some extent the rest of the ship - knew about Johnson's temper. De Guarde, a new arrival, didn't. It was a shame they'd had a run-in so early.

"Do you want to get the next one out?" the Sergeant asked. "They are heavy, though, so mind that."

"Yes, I'd like to." He remembered how heavy the musket had been and took that into account when he took one out. He hefted it against his shoudler steadying the weapon, before he let it slip till it's lock was right at hand's length.

"I can do it." He looked determined, stubborn enough not to fail even at holding the thing in his arms. He was struggling, but still right down unrelenting.

" Clean.. but.. "He looked disproving again. "Think rust could start here...Soon like. Extra drills for t' man!" He exclaimed, and laughed.

Quinn looked at the the musket's number. "Lakey... unusual for him. I'll have to tell him to get it sorted."

He looked at the lad, trying valiantly to hold a musket that was far heavier than he could easily cope with. He seemed to determined to hold it steady, though, which was something.

"Y'know, I don't give them extra drills right away, if there's something wrong with their firelocks. I give them a chance to put it right - they might not know there was anything wrong. If it's still not right, then I'll give them something to do - drill, or checking the pistols or something. But you don't start off that way. I haven't found that any good, you see." He smiled. "Now, if you put that with Beech's, and see this one."

"You don't give extra drills right away?" He looked stunned. He placed Lakey's musket beside the other that wasn't fully right and reached in to take another. It was heavy again, but he did not want to show that he could not hold it. No, he would do it right.

".. What do you do then?.. You just, tell them?" He felt along the musket and then made work on the lock. Swifter movements now. Was that possible? Just warn a person that something was wrong without punishing them for it? And did it work at all?

"Yes, I just tell them. as i said, they might not have realised something was wrong, so it wouldn't be right to give them extra drills straight away. So I tell them, and I let them know when I'll have the arms locker open, or when they can find me to open it for them, and I give them a chance to put it right. And it usually is put right next time I come to check."

He watched the boy check over this firelock. He was gaining in confidence, though still finding the gun heavy to hold, which wasn't surprising at it was only a little shorter than the lad himself.

"How's that one, then?"

"'s allright. No rust, the lock's a bit odd like, but it works. N' the flint makes a good spark too." He nodded sharply, taking in each and every word that sergeant Quinn has shared with him.

"Are they frequent in havin' a bad musket then? Do ye have ter remind them many times?" He wondered about it. Perhaps they would've not had bad muskets at all if he punished them right away. IF that was the case. But he only found one not as good and one that was a surprise to Quinn. He relaxed and smiled.

"The lock's a bit odd? Sounds like Dickin's - he's been having problems with his lock recently." He pulled a book from a shelf just inside the arms locker door and leafed through it. "No, if that plays up any more, he'll have to have one of the spares, which he won't like."

He shook his head at the middy's question. "No, I don't get many problems that way. Usually, I only have to tell them once, though one or two of them had to clean half the ship's pistols before they realised I was serious about it. I haven't yet had anyone push it further than that, though."

He returned the book to the shelf. "You can put that one with the first two, if it's sparking nice. Ready for the next one?"

"Arh!"

In his haste to make it up topside and away from Johnson's unrelenting irritability, Branning whapped his head against a deck beam just before clattering up the companion ladder. The sharp pain in his head was far preferable to staying below and earning himself extra drill, simply because he'd been mending a shirt.

Rubbing at the lump on the side of his head, Branning ambled toward the deck rail and was glad that Johnson seemed content to remain on the Marines' messdeck. Then, with a sigh, he looked at his hat and rubbed his thumb over the slight blemish in the felt where the hat had struck the beam first. Of all the rotten luck.

"Certainly, sir." He nodded and replacing the old with another, he checked it. Lock, rust and flint. Passed! He looked at the sergeant and smiled: "This one is all fine. Not a speck on her, I think. .. No, I'm sure! N' the lock feels smooth n' clear like. ..Like Johnson's."

He learnt the names of men who owned these muskets. He wasn't sure he would recognise them if he ever was introduced, but it felt somewhat nicer to be familiar with that, as if the ship was turning into less of a faceless monster when it's parts were given identities.

"You care if your men are displeased because of their muskets or work?" He rested the musket against his shoulder, so that more weight was distributed into more than his hands.

"I'm a Sergeant, lad, not a sir. And yes, I do care. I would like to think that my men have enough pride in themselves and their uniform to keep their muskets well. And it can also mean life or death. If a firelock ain't looked after properly and doesn't spark when needed, the man holding it might well be killed. Let me see the number on that one."

He looked to see where it was engraved into the brass. "31... that'll be Mallory's. You'll see the difference when we get to the spare ones - this rack, here."

"Spare ones are cleaner? Or more stiff to manipulate?" He nodded faintly. It made sense then, did it. Life or death meant, get the men to do proper because their lives depended on it. But you could do so with harsh discipline too. He smiled and placed Mallory's musket along with the growing collection of those that were properly cleaned and tended to.

He wished to ask more, but he felt that it would have him seem nosy and too personal like, so he turned his intention more the muskets and busied himself with a new one.

Peter made his way past curious sailors to the foc'sle deck. It would be a couple of hours before he was due for duty on the quarterdeck, with Mr George and Chandos. He was more worried about facing Chandos than Mr George.

Fletcher saw the middie arrive, remembering how he had seen him last fight and felt relieved that Yates was not called to punishment. Too terrible would it have been to see his fellow who had been kind to him, caned like that blackguard.

He approached him, the glass filled with his ration still in his hands. He had thought to be done with it, drink or share it with the sailors as he saw Yates do sometimes, but instead he kept it with himself. "Hey, Mr. Yates!" He greeted him kindly, energetically.

Billy looked up from where he was gathering the tools and utensils that had been abandoned by Chase, sloppy scrub that he was. "Mister Fletcher, sir," he said, doing his best to salute with two hands full of buckets and swabs, "D'ye mind handing me that rag there? I'm liable to drop everything." When Fletcher had come closer to deliver the offending article, Billy said quietly, "I think Mister Yates wants to be alone and quiet for a whiles, like. Might be best not to disturb just now."

Fletcher held the article to Billy and frowned. But it was a sad one.
He did not want Yates to be in ill spirits, as he did not want any of
the ship's company.

"Perhaps you are right." He paused and he
looked down to his glass and then Billy. "How are you feeling yourself,
Barrow?" He asked kindly, remembering the night before.

Billy grinned at the young fellow. "Very well, thankee sir. And yourself, Mister Fletcher?"

+ (the Fletcher symbol!)

"I am well of course." Fletcher smiled bright at the sailor.

"You were rather brave there, Barrow. Very brave I'll say! If it weren't for you, one of our mess mates would drown." He was unafraid to compliment the sailor whom he deemed quite worthy. And this man was more than that with his deeds and near sacrifice for a boy who he did not know. A safe fellow one could always count on in the sight of danger he present himself to be.

The young lad's enthusiasm made Billy chuckle. "T'weren't bravery, sir. Just the natural thing to do," he said with a slight shrug. As he walked aft, the midshipman seemed to be following him like a puppy. He looked over his shoulder at Yates to make sure the lad was all right. He seemed to be regaining his composure now, staring out at the sea contemplatively. "I knew the Terpsys would be comin' for us right quick. They wouldn't leave their mates to sink."

++

"No, the Terpsys wouldn't leave anyone behind!" Nods with confidence. "Still, we could've lost you there in the sea. That one doesn't know us well!" he gladly followed the sailor. He was of freer spirit, lighter heart. Always positive, he was now troubled only by what he had seen. Yates and De Guarde fought. But he couldn't tell that to anyone! And he wouldn't! No way to get Mr. Yates in trouble. He was a good friend and a good gentleman.

"Your act was heroic, Barrow. Full glad we have you here, and all the other men too. Tell that to them, will you? Tell them that they've done a good job! A very good one." He smiled, for he was most proud when he saw how the whole Terspy had turned to help a man in need, how they've done it professionaly and with good heart. Chase, who could have felt most ill against that boy, participated. And that knowledge made the boy's heart swell with pride. Terspy was a good ship. Their ship. A proper, happy ship!