The Middies' Berth

"So I reckon." To what he was saying this he did not try to elaborate. Instead he had glanced to the side as if expecting to hear a cannon fire or feel the tremble of timbers when a ball would have struck their own ship. No screams yet, nor shouts loud enough to announce it was beginning. It was quite like the quiet before the storm. Too peaceful, too calm , for not even the sailors nor marines cheered on at the enemy no more. He moved himself up on an elbow, his other hand resting atop his side and tugging at the coat, so that it covered more of him and kept thus more of him warm. He felt his breeches still damp, yet better. And his stockings allas were dry, his shoes he did not wear, for they were soaked through and would need a good long wait, till they would stop squishing and squeaking upon use.

It was becoming near comfortable like, almost as a guest, though of the slightly poor hospitality in offer. If he hadn't been as sure that his fate would return to be a middie on deck, he might've loathed himself being confined here. But it was warm and not wet, he had something to pass time and it was the sole worry that if they lost and the ship began to sink, he might not come up again. But there was no cage in which he was locked, unable to flee, only the prospect of water even above, where he could not swim. The marine would not halt him, if they were in danger and would probably flee himself.

He tapped his fingers against the wooden floors and traced a seam along with his forefinger. He tugged light at his neck cloth and refastened it looser yet still rather prim and rather proper. Wouldn't do if a lieutenant would come below and he was trying to make right with it then. Haste never did too good to one's appearance.

"D' ye think it will last for hours? " He hoped not for days, though if it did, would he be left to stay in this berth and then where be going the rest of the midshipmen? Peh, it was no time to worry himself with logistics. They would come and be done as others pleased. He could only attempt to enjoy the time he were not to do anything at all. And not think of what would come, else he would worry. He could steel his mind to the present. "What kin' of reprimin' d' ye give them for stealing?" He didn't sound convinced, but making conversation still. A prime time to learn what might at another time come of use.

"Don't think it'll last all that long. Be over afore we know it, most likely." He'd heard Cob Chase's yell, but now things were quiet, waiting.

"Stealin', sir? Stealin's allus wrong, and that means the gauntlet, most likely, or mebbe the thieves' cat. When you can't lock your things away, y'see, nobody likes a thief. Means you can't trust each other."

He was drying off, slowly, and warming up. The cloak was helping there, though it could not help the heavy wool of his jacket to dry off. That would take hours, maybe even a day or so before it was completely dry. At least it was still warm to wear, though.

(OOC - I've got uni this afternoon. Be back later!)

"Good. I've worried that you'd not even punish fer stealin'. Have them repriminded t' firs' time or summat instead." He shrugged his shoulders lightly, though there was a bit of sarcasm in his voice, atleast it kept on being pleasant.

"Been any stealin' on this ship before?" He asked conversationally. His bumm still ached, but atleast no longer exposed to the salt, it wouldn't sting as terribly. Good thing that, he'd still hate to sit. Hm, he wondered if the firing would start at any moment. How would it feel, seeing it from down below? Who'd be killed in the action, maimed , wounded? If they won, would the third lieutenant take the honours to go with the prize ship, or second? First? Whomever of them, would have their own command atleast till they'd leave the ship where it was sent.

He yawned. Well whoever won, if they saw the French coming down below, here.. they'd fight. If the French didn't come, they'd be told who won and how later.

"Stealin'? On Terpsy?" The Marine shook his head. "No, none." He turned to look at the lad. "Why d'you like seein' the cat so much?" he asked. "It ain't a nice thing, the cat, y'know. Hurts like hell, and you never get rid of the scars."

It reminded him of the state of his own back. Ten years ago, he'd got eighteen lashes for cheeking an officer while drunk, and the scars on his back were still as plain - thick and white now - as the day he'd got them. And it had hurt like nothing else he'd ever experienced.

He wondered if the lad realised what it meant, really, to get a striped shirt at the gangway. Somehow, he suspected not.

"I've seen me share of it." He shrugged his shoulders unphased. Sure his first time seeing had left him shaken and shocked, but in time one could get used to it all. Even the pain of a man, tied to the gratings and their hateful looks, once they were down.

" It is quite obvious that I have not tried it. I am after all a midshipman and so I am exempt from it. And shall so be of course. And it would certainly not do, were a midshipman ter be flogged!" The grimace he made was telling the whole story of what he'd thought for the middies to feel that. Not happening, not possible, not right and not natural. And just unimaginable all in all.

"'t floggin' makes yer men work better faster like." He reasoned as if it was as plain as day and Thompson was silly to even consider asking.

"It don't. Means he's laid up an can't hardly move, most times. An' even if he can, he can't work so fast 'cause of the pain. You give men pride in what they do an' they'll do it, fast and sailorly, like. Floggin' only makes 'em sullen. Let 'em show off a bit, and you'll see the difference."

He couldn't understand the lad at all. If it were down to him, he'd be wanting to learn and help, not pull folks up for something stupid.

"Yes, but once he's healed he'll make sure not ter do somethin' that could get him in trouble, aye? N' that way he'll do more, faster. Fear! 's how officers work too." He couldn't understand this kindness , equality, pride. How could you give a pressed man pride any how? He'd be happy to return home, flee from the ship if he could, but not be proud that he works for those who had forced him.

Flogging did make them sullen sometimes, but if they knew how it was, they'd just be sure to avoid it. Ofcourse there was always something that they did wrong, not perfect, the lot. That's why they were sailors, and he and the rest of his peers were meant to become officers.

"Yer afraid of me.. 's why you won't strike me." As a parent telling it to a child:".. t' sailors are afraid of what can happen if they strike a middie. We sure 'rnt physically stron' enough, but Fear. Oh, that lets them listen ter us with all ears!" He wasn't sure why he was telling this to a private, a marine and someone who held an eye on him because he was so ordered. Still he decided that it was better than silence and he had nothing better to do any how.

"I won't hit you 'cause I've got more sense, and a dose of respect for that coat you'm wearin'. I wouldn't hit a youngster anyway - tain't fair to hit someone smaller'n you, who can't fight back."

He looked at the lad, frowning. "Why d'you want folks to be a-feared of you? That ain't nice, that. And means they won't talk to you, tell you things. Like... if you're on watch and you're watchin' a sea-gull or summat. Most lads'd tell you if the captain comes on deck, give a bit o' warnin', like. But they won't if they'm scared you're goin' to snap at them, tell them to mind their own business."

He paused, listening, trying to work out what was happening above them. Feet had been moving around, but had stopped now.

"'Sides, I ain't scared of you. Wouldn't be talkin' like this, if I was, would I?"

"You actually believe that there'd be people wanting ter warn you?" Gives a small chuckle, showing that he was perhaps amused by the idea, but didn't believe it possible. "There aint a place , a real one mind ye, that would have t' sailors goin'.. Oy, watch it, t' cap'n's here!" Still chuckling at the thought, and trying to imagine, but it seems quite impossible to him.

" Nay, unless there'd be somethin' in it for them. Then yes." He finally stopped with his stiffled laughter and lay back on the floor, resting his hands at his belly, as if easing the aches of amusement from it.

"...Why 'rent ye scared of me?" Other that he had not yet sent him to be flogged. Or perhaps because he was in a way in command there. If the Midshipman wanted to go up above, he would say no, and his word would be as good as an order.

"You ain't heared 'em then. They do!" Thompson grinned. "Don't ferget us Marines stand guard at the quarterdeck steps, like. I've heared 'em my own self."

He shrugged. Why wasn't he scared of the middy? "Don't need to be, do I? You young gentlemen don't have much to do with us Jollies, like. An' we've got a different command than you an' the sailors. I mean, my superiors is Corp'l Johnson, Sarn't Quinn and Mister Brandeson, not the bosun, you, the Lieutenants. Make sense?"

He shifted position a little and discovered there was water in his shoes. Must've been from when he rescued Mister Yates from being half-drowned as well as breaking his arm. And that reminded him again.

Would Yates tell someone that he'd been slack?

"..Aye, I know." It was quite true. As far as their commands differed, so had their relations, thoughts and minds. Thompson was a marine and thus he was not in a way under the command of young de Guarde. If there was a problem, the middie would probably have to complain to the Corporal , or Quinn or Brandeson. The first two of course, he'd not wish to complain to. Johnson because the two had had a rather unpleasant relationship of not at all liking each other (and that is an understatement) and the second. Well, he just could not.

"..Don't need ter be." He repeated and shook his head slightly. He didn't know what Thompson was thinking but though he was about to mention just the boy, he turned quiet. Yates was still a midshipman and thus to be discussed among middies. It would be awfully strange were he to bring him up before the marine.

He frowned. No sounds of fire yet above. What were they doing? Having a tea time?!

"You want to talk 'bout anythin' else then, sir?" Thompson asked as the pause threatened to grow uncomfortable. Still no sounds from above. Would Colonel Edrington miss him, he wondered. Not, of course, that there was anything he could do about that now, anyway.

He wondered again just why the lad seemed to hate the sailors so much. It must be something like that, or he would not always be looking for ways to get them into trouble.

As for being afraid of the midshipmen himself, even if Yates did tell someone, he didn't necessarily have to worry about getting anything worse than field punishment, or the Master-at-Arms' black book, for however long, and he could survive those well enough.

".. " The youth considered the question and what he were to answer. There had been a deal that he learnt from the marine. Of his past, coming to the ship and some that he learnt of the ship. Nothing he was yet sure that would come of use, but then anything more than knowing nothing was useful already.

"I'll have you choose the theme of our conversation this time." And so he only said, for he hadn't known what to suggest. Almost there, were they? Them fighting above? Either so, or they were still far away. If only the middie's berth would've been placed so that he could see the action himself.

That threw the Marine into a bit of a quandary. What could he suggest that they might talk about, without De Guarde getting angry or annoyed at him for? Something simple might do the trick. A question he could answer 'yes' or 'no' to.

He spoke a little hesitantly anyway. "Do you... do you like the Navy, sir?"

"..I'm a midshipman in it.. what do you think?" He answered somewhat surprised by the question. He'd thought that Thompson would start a topic not that he were to use his moment in question to ask. He adjusted where he lay and he shrugged. He could say yes, and praise his service, or he could say no and curse his parents, or he could not say more than what was true. He was a midshipman, and as such the answer was there. Was it not?

"..n' yourself. Do you like t' navy.. n' t' marines?" He asked throwing the question back at the man from whence it came.

"Aye, I like it well enough. You get a good meal every day, and a smart uniform. Least, us Marines get a smart uniform. And there's the chance of prize money."

He wanted to try to find out a bit about the lad, but wondered if questioning would have him react like a snail did when you poked it with a stick - would he curl up inside his hard, angry self that threatened the cat? Or would he react like a cat, opening up a bit and talking, friendly-like?

Only one way to find out, wasn't there?

"What... what sort of things do you like?" he asked, curiously and slightly cautiously.

The boy eyed Thompson suspiciously, for he had not had before a man asking of his likes. Not on a ship where he trusted noone, else one would be open to harm. How could he, would he even answer the question? What knowledge would Thompson gain to use against him? Surely even the sweet faced marine held something in the bag that he was not yet willing to release.

The boy looked away, so deep he was in thought. Tell, or not. Draw the card of one who is an officer, a midshipman or be tempted by the question and the kind though hesitant voice. The kindest could be most vile, could they not? Could have answered with sarcasm? He glanced back at the soldier and still remained quiet a while.

"Didn' ye jus' claim to know what I liked, a moment ago?" He asked, and was pleased.

Thompson sighed. "No, sir. I said what you seem to like... but I don't reckon that's really true. I dunno, though, mebbe I'm wrong." He looked down momentarily, thinking how best to say it.

"I want to find out about you, sir. Like I told you a bit about me. Or mebbe I didn't." He shrugged. "Me, I like plum duff on Sundays. I like lookin' smart, but I don't like all the work we have to do before a parade. I keep me musket proper-like. I like cats, though not when they put fur all over me jacket. I can't sing, not really, though I like listenin' to folks singing. I come fr'm Chatham - but I already said that bit." He smiled encouragingly at the lad. "What about you, then, sir? Just a little bit, please?"

He'd been told a deal of things, many tid bits of the man's person. He knew of his musket now and of his flaws. True flaws this time and the boy felt to wonder if they were such, or if the private was offering him bait to learn himself. After the battle of ships he and the marine would walk a different way, and he would be a midshipman still, while the marine would still be a private.

One with knowledge though, would he not?

"..I like Emily." He murmured and looked from the man. He did care for the feline even if their affection was often not returned. He liked cats and that girl was no exception."..She's a fine.. lady." He murmured , keeping a watchful eye on the private. Would he look as if he were making note in his mind, or be just glad of the answer. He hesitated and knew that if he were add the next, Thompson could still not use it much against him.

".. goin' up t' shrouds... I enjoy.." He murmured that subtly, more softly than the one before.

Maybe he hadn't said much, but it was an answer to the question, and Thompson was pleased he hadn't been snapped at. It was something, at least. Maybe he was right to look for something worthwhile in the lad.

"Aye, goin' up aloft is good, ain't it? What's the highest you've ever been?"

"The highest you can go." He smiled proudly before he could make himself nonchalant with the answer. It brough red to his cheeks as he realised how he had looked, and thought that he'd been a far cry from a proper midshipman at that moment. He glanced away, both to hide the redness on his cheeks and the embarrassement and also to gether his thoughts so that he would not have such an outburst unbeckoming.

"..It is pleasant, and as duty calls for it, you go." He spoke in a voice that aged him a good deal. "I'm surprised that you enjoy it as well. Though, you are one of the sharpshooters aren't you." One of them men, the marines, that went up high to snipe at their enemy, or atleast to try and shoot at them from above.

"They are moving.."He commented the sounds from above, the feet and the call he had heard. "..Might be a battle yet.. or we've given up on t' chase.." He hesitated and corrected himself: "They've given up on t' chase."

"You'd be all right skylarkin' with Mister Kinsella and the others, then. I've only been as far as the tops." He grinned. "Bit hard to reload right up high, and you get too many sails in the way to make it any use."

He listened for a moment. "Don't think we've given up, sir. I reckon they'm probably goin' to start firin' soon."

He shifted, trying to get a bit more comfortable in his damp clothes. It seemed very quiet down here, with only himself and De Guarde around that he could see, although he knew the gunner was in the magazine.

"If you like a duty, don't it make easier to do, though?" he said thoughtfully. "Us Marines, we have to stand sentry an awful lot, but some places are better than others. Like... standin' by the quarterdeck steps. You get to see what's goin' on a lot more than standin' by the magazine. Both duties last the same time, but standin' on the magazine feels like it goes on forever, 'cause there ain't nothin' to see."

"So.. do you prefer to look about while on duty?" It was a fair innocent question, and the boy atleast looked to be relaxed. It was strange but there was benefit in being stranded down below as much as it was unwelcome. He needn't be wet, as all other were by now, atleast those on deck exposed to the elements. He didn't need to stand and be worried about being shot right of the deck, nor to put effort in looking smart. Here he was resting and he was able to have some shut eye earlier. With his convictions in place, he needn't worry either and could take the time below almost as a granted leave, instead of forced. It sure did help a mind, to consider it in that way. Sure did help him feel better, which probably was something the lieutenants above did not want. But then, they were up there and wet and he was down here, warm, dryer and feeling quite well. Sure he would have wished to participate in battle, but this wasn't half bad either. And there was a smaller chance that he would end up without an arm or a leg, an eye or life.

"'ve been ter see action before." He murmured.

"Gets borin', staring at the same bit o' bulkhead for hours at a time. If we couldn't look around, chances are we'd end up half-asleep, and that'd mean we'd be slow to react if anythin' went wrong, or we was needed."

The creaking of the timbers had died down a bit, and the deck was no longer heaving so much under Thompson's feet. He didn't know whether it had yet stopped raining, though, but even if it hadn't there would be more chance of a proper fight now the storm seemed to be dying away.

"You've seen action before? Was... was that in your last ship?" He couldn't remember the name at the moment.

"Aye. T' Confidence." He answered with a slight nod. Well, Thompson had a point there with the boredom striking deep, though he was a marine and should be at attention for the whole duration no matter what! Of course, one who has never tried that could think it was easy. Never tried the marine way alas.

"Couldn' be elsewhere, eh?" Well point to be made, as Terpsy was only his second ship. ".. Firs' time was a .. right bangin' it was." He nodded shortly, the memory was not as fresh no more, though few thoughts could still bring it forward. He touched the scar at the back of his hand and slid his forefinger gently across it.