Light duties and men

"I am but a year older than you." He could not disagree with any of the other reasons though he wanted. He may not have been that much taller, but a single inch or two could tip the scale in favour of one over the other. "On equal terms you say.." He could not help but smile, though unpleasantly and far from happy. "I hadn't known that you were caned as well. But 'tleast I know now.. how weak.. you feel yourself to be."

Again he was starting, could he not hold his tongue for a moment, for a second in which he would not go insult a man or boy. "Very well then." He cued gently, as if he were to speak with a toddler and not a young gentleman before him. "It negates your earlier threat finely. Yates. Thump me.. you wouldn't be able to do much than glare at me, were I to bully mr. Fletcher, or not." He looked in the direction of where the young boy had earlier disappeared. He was probably still waiting on him.

"..Which reminds me. Since you have so helpfully poured that drink into the sea, I have no reason to remain here. ..My business awaits elsewhere." He took a step from the middie.

"That isn't the point," said Peter. "I'll fight you if I have to, even if I'm going to lose, because that is what we have to do. But I don't see why I should get into a fight just because you've looking for one..." He saw the direction of de Guarde's look and sighed in irritation. "You are the most determined blackguard on this ship - and we've men who are the dregs of society, as you are so keen to remind us. But none of them is as bad as you. I have no wish to talk to you any more. Until you learn more civilized ways."

Peter pushed himself off from the rail and strolled away casually, following the route taken by Fletcher earlier.

He sighed and frowned watching the boy go. Not in that direction, damn him! He bit down a groan at the protest of his stiff limbs, of his bruised bum and quickened his pace. So at first he came alongside Yates and then even managed to get ahead. His breeches were stained at the back already but it did not matter. Be damned if Yates would get a hold of the second drink and spill it as the first!

He was sorry though. He hadn't meant to start an argument with the boy, nor bring them to the terms that they were now. it was the manner that the boy addressed him, that had him react again in such vile manner. He didn't want to. Not today any more. He was supposed to learn a lesson and he,... it didn't stick. He wanted friends too, but then he realised. Friends? He was in the service, his primary objective to do his duty. Not to make friends. He couldn't even if he wished to. Everybody was on the ship wanting something. No friends there. Only those out of favour.

Fletcher waited to the side, looking nervous and unhappy, clutching his glass close to his chest. He lifted his gaze to see a figure. By it's odd gait he learned quickly who it was.

De Guarde was walking so slowly that Peter had no difficulty in passing him again, before he got to Fletcher, and taking the other boy by the arm. The movement spilled some of the liquid in the glass, with its strong, sweet smell.

"Come away," he said. "There are things you need to understand. Things we can do together."

Thompson was relieved by Sergeant Quinn, and moved for'rard a bit, ignoring the young gentlemen by the larboard rail. The Army officer was leaning on the starboard rail, and Thompson had to pass him to get to the companionway down to the gundeck.

"Mornin', sir," he said, risking greeting him. "Nice day, ain't it?"

"Thompson. Good morning, and yes, it looks as if it will stay fair." Edrington turned from contemplating the sea to face the young Marine. "But just in case it doesn't, I thought I'd get my breath of fresh air now."

Thompson grinned. "Never know what might happen out here in the Bay, sir," he said. "Though it has been nice for the last few days." It was colder today, though, and he thought the older man was being sensible. "I s'pose you want to join your regiment quick as you can, sir. Is... is it a good regiment?"

He hoped that the Colonel wouldn't mind talking to him a bit; he'd seemed nice enough during the Captain's dinner last night, after all.

"The 62nd - the Wiltshires. I think so." He smiled. "It started out fifty years or so ago, acting as Marines against the French in North America. We were based on ships and provided men for landing parties, crews for ships' guns ashore. The work you do. My battalion has been recruiting, and sending men to join the first batallion - this is our first actual service in our own right. I think we'll do pretty well. Good men, and well trained."

If they'd started out as Marines, they couldn't be all bad, even if it had been fifty years ago.

"It's a good life, aboard ship, sir," he said, resting his musket's butt on the deck and leaning on the weapon. "Leastways, I think it is, sir." He paused, glancing at the aristocratic face of the man next to him. He seemed nice enough, though Thompson thought he looked a little lonely, as though he wanted someone to talk to. "What's it like, fightin' on land, sir? I... I mean, the sort of things you do, sir."

"Hey. Wait.."He was just at Fletcher's side when the boy began to turn. He grasped at his arm and glared at Yates. Who did he think he was, to interfere? Well, he was a midshipman who did not want to have his friend bullied. Mathew cursed and tightened the grip on the poor boy.

Fletcher winced and looked somewhat frightened between the two boys, not wanting to be caught in the middle. Not only for he could get hurt, but also as if there was trouble he could get in trouble too. "Fletcher dear,.. do stay here."He said with forced kindness, glaring at Yates.

Edrington smiled. "We march - that's one thing that the Navy spares you. We march after the enemy, or often away from him. And there are skirmishes, usually where cavalry tries to harass the column of soldiers, break them up and - well, kill as many as they can. Major battles are rare. But when you're in one, all you can do is stand and wait for the signal to change position, or advance. Being let loose on the enemy, that is what we wait for." He thought for a moment. "As for what we do, as a Line Regiment, we wait until the enemy is within musket shot and then throw as many into him as we can as quickly as possible."

Thompson tried to imagine it. "Like we do, then, sir. Only, we have to wait for the ships to get into range of the big guns. And then we have to wait a bit longer afore we'm in musket range." He patted his own Sea Service musket. "And like you say, sir, we don't have all that marchin' around to do. Though you don't march, do you, sir? Ain't you got a horse?"

Edrington laughed. "I have a horse - and it does save me a fair bit of marching. But not all of it, and not the worst of it, either, because that's the time when you're meant to dismount to spare the horse. But I can at least walk at such times, not march."

He looked at the musket. "Not quite the same as ours - shorter, I think. And we have artillery on our side, as well. So do the French. So we have to wait, like you do, for the big guns to try to kill us all, before anyone comes in range at all. But at least they can't sink us."

[And I have to go unexpected early, although I may be back for an hour or so before dinner. Thank you]

The Marine hesitated before holding his beloved musket out so the Colonel could see it better.

"She'm got a browned barrel, too, to stop the rust," he said. "And she is a bit shorter than yourn, 'bout three or four inches, I think. Makes it easier if we have to use them belowdecks. Though I'm usually in the tops in a fight." He looked proud at the admission. "Us Marines don't have to go aloft, y'see, sir. Any of us that do, volunteer to do it. Though me fisrt Corporal, on Vixen insisted all his men went up at least three times, to get used to it and any that liked it could volunteer to do it more. It's the only way to get used to it, y'see, sir. By doin' it."

Edrington looked at the musket, in prime condition and clearly kept that way by the proud Marine. Now it was held out, it was easy to see the difference in length. The browned barrel to protect against rust - it had rained enough that that would have been useful for land muskets as well. Or perhaps it was something to do with the sea air and the salt in it.

He smiled at the young man's pride in being stationed aloft. He had climbed to the tops himself, on a previous voyage, and would only do so again under considerable pressure. Clearly many Marines, too, did not fancy the climb, although it might be the exposed position in a fight. "Are you a sharp-shooter, then?" he asked. "Targetting officers?"

"Yes, sir. That's how the Frogs got Admiral Nelson, y'see, sir, and he wouldn't let his Marines go into the tops, though I don't know why. It ain't everyone who can do it, after all."

He was proud of it, as he was proud of his uniform and the Corps, though Lieutenant Brandeson was a disgrace. Maybe they could get a better officer when they got to Lisbon?

"It's the horse that gives us away. It does make an officer easier to identify - even puts him up on high, like a target on a post. That and the gold braid."

He remembered something that had been discussed at dinner, and asked: "Are you a good shot?"

"Yes, sir. Least, I reckon I am. I c'n get a barrel at a hundred yards, and a bottle at twenty-five, with me musket here." He patted his Brown Bess again. "C'n fire four shots a minute, too, sir," he said looking slightly shy as he made the boast.

"That would be individual fire, I suppose. We do not achieve that at the volley of course, where the whole drill must be kept steady." If the weather stayed fair, it might at least occupy an hour or so. "I don't know if you heard Dr Crozier raise the question of the Austrian rifle, at dinner? It is a curiosity here, but it has - allegedly - a rate of 20 shots a minute, and a killing range of 150 yards. If I can persuade the Captain to let me experiment with it, perhaps the Marines would care to attend. It would be of more interest to them, than to the seamen."

Peter glared back. "Let him go, de Guarde," he said quietly. "I said I thump you if you picked on any of us. And I meant it." De Guarde had been right, of course, that in his present condition, it would merely take a couple of well aimed slaps to make de Guarde give in. That might not be fair in a straight-forward fight, but in this case, it would be justified.

Fletcher clearly wanted to be away from them, but could not go while de Guarde had his arm. Peter smiled at him reassuringly. "De Guarde is just playacting," he said. "He won't really hurt you."

"Yes, sir, I heard that." Of course he'd heard that, and it had piqued his interest.

"I know I'd like to see it, my lord, and there ain't any reason to suppose the others wouldn't, either."

Twenty shots a minute, and able to kill at 150 yards? Who wouldn't want to see a gun like that?

"I won't hurt you Fletcher. You know that. But you will come with me. And you will tell your friend Yates to ..mind his own business." His eyes returned the glare that Mr. Yates was giving him. And then just as pleasantly in tone he answered him:"...I'm not scared of that threat, Yates. And I will ask you myself. .... Let Mr. Fletcher go with me. You know yourself he shall not be long." His eyes narrowed darkly. "I will not ask you again."

Young Fletcher looked from left to right and held the glass still tight in his hand. Yates sounded reassuring and much nicer than De Guarde was, but that boy said he wasn't wanting to hurt him either, which left the poor boy caught between two fires and unable to act accordingly.

"It is my business, de Guarde. I have to live on this ship, with these people." Peter glanced from de Guarde to Fletcher and back. He ought not to rely on the younger boy, who ... Who was old enough to know right from wrong. And who ought to be able see that de Guarde was a wrong'un without Peter needing to explain why. Fletcher had much more sea time than Peter, who - well, he hadn't invested as much in this career, and if he got thrown off the ship, it would still be worth it. He drew his fist back and threw a well aimed punch at de Guarde's face, in accordance with his brother's lessons.

There was a gasp that came from young Fletcher, who saw it all happen right inches before him. De Guarde's both hands had been held tight on the boy's arm, so that neither was free to react when the punch came. His head jerked back with the force of the strike. To an adult man it may have not seemed like much, but among boys it was just as strong.

He gaped, shocked at the feeling that spread from his skin. The damn boy punched him! It took a moment more to take it all in before he near pushed the younger boy out of his way, with his urge to come quick for Yates himself. A hand had been drawn into a fist and pulled back. It struck with considerable force, aimed not at Yates's face, but his belly. Fletcher stood out of the way himself. This wasn't going to end up well, but if he called for someone, his friend - Yates - would get in trouble too.

"Please stop!" He tried in a quieter tone, so that the two boys could hear, but not the unwanted ears.

Peter gasped and doubled up. The step away was merely to allow him to throw himself back at de Guarde, but he retained enough sense of what was right to push at Fletcher. "Go and learn knots," he said. "You're not here, you haven't been here." He looked at de Guarde, almost for confirmation of the ruse, which would get young Fletcher clear of any trouble there might be.