Beating to quarters

Someone was calling him. He opened his eyes and saw the doctor. "Yes, doctor, I'm all right. The ship. I can't hold on to anything at the moment, and the cot swayed so."

[OOC: I've been on board a couple of weeks at most. My ability to give decisive orders is negligible. Well, they might be decisive, but they would almost certainly be WRONG. With me in sickbay, the average competence of the active crew is increased by a significant amount.]

What cot? Crozier patted him on the uninjured shoulder and smiled reassuringly. "Good man. You'll do fine. M'Clure, help me settle him in the corner for now."

"Thank you, sir." Peter felt himself being lifted and moved. He shouldn't be tired, but he was, and would be very happy if someone would just let him lie down.

Dunnock stumbled into the orlop, assisting little Johnny Stenhouse whose forehead was bleeding. "Sir, Stenhouse fell down the stairs," he explained as he surrendered his young charge. "Peter, you all right? Dan said you hurt your arm?" He gave his friend a grin. "It's a Frenchie, 36 guns. Won't she make a fine prize?"

"I'm all right - the doctor's fixed it up. A Frenchie, is she? Well, I'll be up there before we take her. When will we catch up?" Surely they could not take her, or even fight her, not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

There wasn't much to do till his captain would send him on arrand or two. He was feeling cold and miserable now, but bore it all in stride. Not because he wished to prove himself. He'd already decided that for now he loathed the whole ship, except perhaps Quinn and he was undecided on Thompson, Branning and Everett. But any other man or child was fair game for his hate.

Especially those who had dared chug him into the water. He winced as he shifted and felt more of the salty water seep into his clothes so that he wished he could cry and curl up. He did not do so though, and rather observed the approaching Frenchy. Whose ship? What class? How many guns? It wasn't an English ship, that was most certain and he'd made sure again that they weren't mistaken. If the storm would become less, they could engage the enemy, if not.. he wondered what the captain would do. Attempt to prosecute it? Or perhaps to continue on his way, and decide it a battle not worth fighting?

Kinsella had delievered the message that his fellow middie asked for and had since arrived on deck to join with the middie and Bolitho.

"There you are, Mister De Guarde," Lieutenant George was calling. "It's a French frigate, 36 guns. We may see some action today. Go and help get those hammocks stowed in tight. Fletcher, Mister Fletcher! Run up our colors! Clap onto the life line there!"

"Aye, aye sir!" The boy turned from the lieutenant, going on his way the very same instant. He descended the stairs, stumbled and slipped, grabbing a hold as a wave burst across the deck. He winced but continued till he had reached the gang way to descend below. He had called to a chosen group of sailors and directed them to begin collect any hammock that they could find. Those that he'd found not rolled and secured, though it should thus have been done early in the morning, were ordered to be rolled and lashed so tight that they would provide as much protection as any could. His eyes were alight with the tension, but intent on completing the task efficiently. The group had then been carrying each, one by one, onto the wet slippery deck, and then they were stacked along the sides of the bulwarks, or in different cases up in the netting.

They were placing and tightening the hammocks in place, he was shouting at the men, knowing the urgency of preparations even as banal as this, yet he'd not bullied nor attempted to give a shouting to any sailor, that would take him from the task too long. Still harsher than the other boys perhaps, but atleast not stopping the process instead of doing it. Once the first rolled hammocks were secured along the gangway, the men were sent to climb. The young middie had observed from below at first, clutched onto a life line, to keep himself from falling or being swept away by a renegade wave. Sailors needed little coaxing or teaching, still when he saw a hammock secured badly, he turned to climb himself.

"Careful there!" He yelled. "You there, leave it like that and it will slip!" Then there were the hammocks for topmen still in need to be brought up. Once all of the work here was done. He felt the pain and tried to ignore it for the benefit of the ship.


(I read somewhere that the topmen's hammocks o.o were taken up too.)

Having rushed to do de Guardes bidding- taking up hammocks was a boring but neccassary job- John had groaned at the ineptitude of some of the lashing of hammocks that was happening. Reckoning that it didn't matter who did it, he responded to de Guardes yell to the men running up the tops by clearing up those hammocks himself.

He caught a glimpse of de Gaurdes face, "Alright there, sir? Bracing, ain't it?"

Bracing? That was the last thing on his mind, clinging to the ropes and trying to ignore the salt that seeped right into his wounded backside and the fabric that was clinging to it much like it was glued to his body. He glared at the sailor, his discomfort barely masked by the look and he snapped at him:" We're not up 'ere on a jolly ride. Get a move on, sailor! I'll hold yer personally responsible if any of those hammocks falls or makes a poor job against the Frogs!"

He had to take himself a rope higher and bit on his lip. The ropes were damn slippery. "Lively damn you!"

John grinned into the wind, but held his mouth tight while he was facing de Guarde. "Lively. Ay sir!" he called, running a critical eye over the knots already holding the bedding in place. "You have me word they won't be beaten by the Frogs, sir." He held himself surely against the roll then dived below for the last of the hammocks.

How much happier he'd be once this particular job was over and he was back up on deck again, despite the ithyness that would follow when the salt dried against his skin.

The boy slipped onto solid ground, though was quick to grasp a life line, before he would have gone sliding across the deck and getting to know any of the cannons up close and personal. He looked at the sailors descending and observed their handywork. All secured! "Westdale!" He's known the man's name just from a short while ago. And he waited for the sailor to approach him." Are those all of the hammocks we have?" He could've asked any other of the men, but he chose to target the one. After all, he's taken on the responsibility with that near bold assurance.

Looked like the new ypung gentleman - De Guarde, he remembered - was chasing the sailors around again. And in this weather, too. It was too bad, it really was. Thompson was glad that neither Sergeant Quinn nor Corporal Johnson came down on the Marines under their command like that. The boy was looking for someone to respond insolently, Thompson was sure, and he'd make them suffer for it when someone did. He wondered if there was any good in the boy, and how they could begin to bring it out if there was.

He ran a hand through wet hair, glad he'd stopped the muzzle of his musket. It wasn't going to fire in this rain, and wasn't quite sure what use the Marines were going to be if they closed the French during this storm.

John heard the bellow, checked the knot quickly and came over. "s'Far as I know, sir." He said. "I've checked them all, too, sir, and they'll hold, I reckon."

He eyed the uncomfortable looking middie with something approaching trepidition. "Would you like me to check them again, sir?"

He was beginning to wonder whether they would engage the enemy at all. The cannons unsheltered by a ceiling would be drenched in water.. or rather most already were, and they would not fire. But if the storm was soon to be done, the ones below could be used. Assuming that the sea was not too rough. Would they even consider engaging or bear out the storm first, trailing behind the Frenchman, till the opportunity arose to sink it? He glanced at the sky, not caring for the sailor he had addressed for a moment, and studied the darkness that was above them. Eerie, strange light, there was!

He took a good hold when a wave splashed over the deck and hissed as it soaked through, cold and unpleasant, into his clothes. He caughed and felt reminded of the event that happened at night, and he looked worriedly around himself and then glared at Westdale as if daring him. Dare do something of the sort, even attempt, even look funny and there shall be hell to pay. He fought down a sob at the burning and stinging sensation and wished they'd have had a lovely day in which to engage the enemy.

"Yes, check again, Westdale. I should not find a single one left when I go down." His voice carried threat and was stiff and on edge, but not for the hate he'd had held towards the man. It was just his discomfort shining through. He was holding himself back. No time to waste, else Lt. George would be displeased.

John carefully ran a strong hand and eye accross each knot as he went past, then worked his way below decks, searching out another two hammocks which had been behind some wood.

"I'm certain these are the last, sir." He reported to de Guarde, checking the last set of knots and knuckling his forhead. "Is that all, sir?" He wasn't quite sure what de Guarde was driving at- apart from letting everyone feel his displeasure- and he had no reason to want to be on the receiving end of -that- thanks very much.

"Yes. Once the storm and the probable battle is over." He nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the ship, that was easily seen at present. "You shall report to me,.. If you survive, of course." He smirked at the sailor, not quite sure why he'd even made such a demand. But there was a feeling that he had done the right thing.

John nodded once, trying to control his shoulders. SOmething was not right, and they were trying to squitch righ out of his nice wet jacket. "Aye, sir. I shall seek you out as soon as I may."
He looked around. "Might I run up now, sir?" He tried to see if there was any need for him even to be up there, given the general hubbub, but figured that if Mr de Guarde moved and let him, well, that wouldn't be no sorrow.

"And your business up there would be?" He asked, and was unwilling to have sailors sent up into the shrouds if they had no reason being there. Especially not when a storm had been raging and men were easily lost as it were, doing their own jobs and duties.

John, knowing he had no real business up there anyway, hung his head. "Nothing sir, at least, not yet. But I could do whatever you asked of me up there sir, I bet you I could." John's eyes shone, and he swept his hair back from his face with something approaching a swagger, though he dropped his hand quickly and stood still again.

"And I should ask you to do what, exactly?.. Endanger yourself?" Well, he would not have minded that, only to prove to the man that an officer was good. But there was no time in playing with lives, when too easily they might be lost and too great they might be needed if they were to engage.

Storms were a fact of life at sea, as far as Sergeant Quinn was concerned. that didn't mean he liked them much, of course. There was always the threat of drowning - ever present, of course, but more so in bad weather when you couldn't tell larboard from starboard. At least everything under his care was stowed properly with no danger of shaking loose by the time Oxley beat his (very soggy) drum for Quarters, and as soon as he'd issued the men their muskets and he'd taken his own, he followed them up to the gundeck to see what was going on.

John felt this conversation rapidly sliding beyond his control. Just what was de Guarde driving at? "You are telling me sir, you know. I wouldn't try to get meself killed, if thats what you're worried about."

"Well, if an officer shall tell you to head for the tops, by all means do. But for now, I am sure you are needed elsewhere. N'.. ye might well prepare yourself." He looked in the direction of the ship again:"... We might encounter more than a little storm." He hesitated, realising he knew what task there was for Westdale to do.

"Actually, I've got something for you." He thus spoke and studied the man:" Go to the sick berth and inquire about Mr. Yates." An odd thing that he wished to know how the boy was, but as cruel as the boy might've acted a broken arm, well one could've lost it all together. He may have been angry with the boy but still Yates was one of the midshipmen. And those on this ship were oddly different.

"If t' doctor asks, tell him, I've sent you. Be quick about it now!"

Get aloft, take in sail, get back on deck. Chase's feet slapped against the water-slick deck as he leapt down from the shrouds, passingly glad for a reprieve from the constant climbing up and down. Other seamen were just finishing the task of tying up the hammock nettings and the gun crews were assembling. Chase grabbed Taylor by the collar and dragged him along below, grinning foolishly when the carpenter's mate slipped on the wet planking.

"C'mon Bill, I heared there's a Frog out there!" Chase cried and pulled Taylor after him down to the gun deck.